Changes
by voldie's lover
Summary: The little changes that kept happening. They thought it was not real, unless they acknowledged it. But how long would you keep denying it? FredxGeorge.
1. Chapter 1

**I'd been awol for a long time. For those who have read** ** _Love is Blind_** **and** ** _You and Me_** **, this is for them- I don't know if I'll ever complete** ** _You and Me_** **.**

 **Thing is, I think I'd been really immature as a writer back then, and reading the things I'd written only embarrasses me now. I think I'd done no justice at all to the twin's characters, with all the unbearable cheesiness and the incredible OOCness. I am of course grateful for all those who had reviewed and had been so kind with me.**

 **Hopefully this is a better fic. This is what I think they had been going through when they moved out and started living together. Not all their time was spent selling joke stuff now was it.**

 **It's a new, slightly different way of narration that I'm attempting :)**

* * *

They've finally done it.

They bought a shop; not just any, its one rounding a corner, smack at the centre of attention. Plus they've made sure to give it a garish theme of their own flaming hair colour, and what's more, place their own huge bust on it, with a hat and a vanishing rabbit and all. Just one, because well, they are identical.

The apartment above the shop is a tiny one, though magic solved that problem easily. They have enlarged it and added enough rooms to store batches of products that would have otherwise been a nightmare to manage.

The whole process of moving out was quite a hassle, sure. Even with them whipping their wands out for putting even a tiny pygmy puff out of the way and into some box. Their dad helped them with a few things here and there, and once they were settled, had a cup of tea, before leaving them with a pat each to their backs and a heartening smile.

So here they are, just lounging on the couch in their apartment after a typical tiring weekend. Unlike most others, they work hard on the weekends and are closed instead on Mondays, for the sale is more on weekends, obviously.

 _Fred thinks about just what it is that's happening to them these days.  
_ _Perhaps it's them getting mature.  
They finally made their one dream come true, and now it is peace.  
(Except for the ever present You-know-who threat. But it's only like a wart for now: not causing any imminent harm; just a constant bugbear.)_

They are... _quiet_ when they are together, these days. Back in The Burrow, when there was always one Weasley or the other around them, they had to make some noise, every once in a while, just to irritate them if not anything else.

Now it is just the two of them. It would be stupid if they'd be yapping and hollering and blowing things off in the quiet of their own home.

To be honest, they never have been alone like this. Not really. Not until now. They have always been surrounded by their family, back in The Burrow, or by their friends in school.

Now they've dropped out (gladly), and moved out.

But it's good. He isn't complaining.

"George."

George lolls his head to a side, cracks open one eye, and grunts in response.

"What, you're too tired to give me a proper response?" he elbows him lightly.

"Ugh whatisit?" he mumbles, turning his head away with a small frown and closing his eyes. "My head's hurting, actually. That wart Donald kept trying to open the vials and I had a hard time keeping him away while trying not to hex his arse."

Fred grins at him. "Ever the courteous salesman."

"Yeah, of course. You've got to be one. Even if they get on your nerves and-"

"Try to nick things?"

"Huh?" At that, George turns and looks at him.

"Yeah. Had to actually hex that one."

George chuckles, and looks away. Fred smiles at his face as he closes his eyes and rests his head back on the headrest.

"Dinner time." Fred reminds softly.

"No." he mumbles.

"C'mon," he insists, and when he sees no sign of response from George, moves over to grab him around his waist and pull him up.

" _Hey_." he says in protest. A hand pushes half-heartedly against his chest. Fred only cracks a small grin and tugs him up.

"Quit being a baby. Get some food and sleep, and you'll be okay."

"Ugh all right. Get your hands off me." He tries to sound huffy.

He only ends up grinning at him.


	2. Chapter 2

Times were untroubled when they were little. No stupid family disagreements (Percy hadn't achieved _this_ degree of brainlessness back then), no sudden disappearances or deaths...

No threat to _their_ family.

If the false sense of security hadn't been shaken before, it has been now, after their dad had been attacked by Voldemort's snake. It had made the threat very much real to them.

But they hide it.

People need a laugh these days.

 _Hiding behind a mask. Humour serves the purpose of dissolving the sense of utter fear and uncertainty._

The future scares them.

So they do the one thing that makes sense to them: retreating into a fort of blankets, and living there, in the present. The familiar spill of silky red, the freckles that darken as they practice a little Quidditch in the sunlit skies, the warm brown that gaze with old, intimate friendship; the little comforts keep them happy for now.

Such little joys of life is what they feel when their friends walk in and they fall into a familiar, light-hearted chatter. It doesn't feel that they are no longer in school. When they talk, they pick up right from where they had left.

Lee is recovering from a bout of laughter. "I actually wanted you two to try the stinksap trap on her," he says about Umbridge. "Just the whizbangs had scared the crap out of her. Stinksap would have almost killed her with shock."

George shrugs. "Centaurs did a pretty good job of it for us anyway."

"If it wasn't for Dumbledore they'd have pretty much ripped her to shreds." Fred remarks.

"I heard she spent some time in the St. Mungos psychiatric ward." says Angelina. "Apparently she was shuddering at anything related to hoofs." Lee has been dating Angelina since last year.

"She shouldn't have been reinstated, that evil hag. Not that the rest of the lot are virtuous souls." says George.

"At least the Ministry's got its wits back." says Lee.

Fred's face suddenly scrunches into a peeved expression when his eyes seem to land on something. "Hey! Get off that stool! He's about to- oh for pete's sake!" Verity, a short, petite girl who is their shop assistant, looks up alarmed from where she was writing some order at her little desk, but George motions her reassuringly to stay as his twin marches off toward where a Slytherin teen is wobbling precariously on the said stool, seemingly after going ahead and trying out the fainting-fantasies, milder version of the fancies, placed on the upper racks, despite the 'no trying before paying' signs that are covering almost every inch of their shop.

Fred mutters " _Arresto momentum_ ," and no sooner the teen reaches the floor than he is snapping at the semi-conscious teen, "Cough up for whatever you've taken or you'll be cleaning our storerooms for no pay."

Lee snorts a laugh, "You're still a piss pot, aren't you? His eyes are rolling back in his head."

"Oh he'll be all right." George mutters, looking apathetically at him. Its not often, but it still happens. Stuff being nicked. Its high time that they put up some preventive charm.

"Wha.." The boy groans, eyes focusing now. "Oh 'm sorry. Was just curious, really. Wasn't tryna steal anythin'. Fantasies...thought it'd be like hemp or somethin'," George's eyebrows shoot up. The Slytherin reaches into his pocket and thrusts a few sickles into Fred's slack hand, before getting up.

"Hemp." Fred repeats blankly, taken aback.

"Try sniffing the smoke from the lamps in Trelawney's class." George calls encouragingly as the teen walks off. "Weirdo." he mumbles as he turns back to face the three.

"Weird for a Slytherin to go without at least one snarky retort." says Angelina, brows raised in surprise. Fred makes a 'whatever' expression.

Lee shrugs. "Heard that the Cannons were completely demolished in yesterday's match?"

George launches into a bitter rant.

For now, they forget life's bigger woes.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'll be including the sixth-and-seventh-part scenarios of HP. The Slytherin boy is the device I will use to explain the twins', ah, one tiny carelessness. Hope I did not give much away.**

* * *

But when it's just the two of them, when there is nothing but the soft waves of each other's thoughts ebbing and surging through their intimately connected minds, that is when the realness of the danger that they try and ignore in the light of the day, the unsettling chaos that they try and drown in the sounds of familiar, rambunctious company, sometimes, grows tangible in the disquieting silence and the unsettling darkness of the night.

And they could feel it; Fred could feel the deep insecurities and fears in George's thoughts, George could feel the clash of helplessness and the urge to protect him in Fred's thoughts.

 _The threat.  
The threat is only like a wart for now, George. There's no imminent harm. It's just a constant bugbear._

George won't laugh at that stupid analogy anymore.

 _Fred isn't kidding himself, George realizes with dull resignation. It's the urge to protect George._

Playing the older brother.

 _Only by five minutes, you git._

It's a stupid analogy, because it's been three years since you-know-who returned, two years since their dad was attacked, a year since they opened their shop...

 _Because death is hanging like a knife above our heads, Fred. For fuck's sake, I nearly-_

Blood flowing down George's severed ear, down his pale neck, soaking the cushions on which he was laid...

It wasn't like the time when a bludger was sent hurtling to him by Fred, with frightening speed and accuracy, or like the time when his nose had bled non-stop when they tested their nosebleed nougat for the first time.

On the first incident, stupid George took the bludger straight to his skull, was knocked right off his broom, and Fred saw, with a thrill of fear, that George's eyes had rolled back and his face was slack and peaceful as he went free falling straight to the ground...

He'd shouted the incantation before George hit the ground, tilted his broom and dived down, gathered George in his arms and shook him frantically, started weeping, and that was when the twat decided to take pity on him and reach out a hand and tweak his nose.

On the second, Fred had seen his twin bleed and bleed through his nose, laughing, Fred joining him in the laughter, teasing him, watching him eat the orange end of the nougat that was supposed to stop the bleeding, asking him if he needed a handkerchief to blow his nose, if he wanted to try the yoga thing that they'd found in one of dad's muggle magazines. Nose leaking, George had asked thickly why would he want to do yoga, and Fred had said it might help with his sinus problem, then George said never mind the yoga thing, he'd just go with a handkerchief, because that yoga thing looked scarily difficult.

He had kept bleeding, one joke after another.

And Fred had said, oh but he should try yoga, at least he'd learn to blow himself if not blow his nose.

George laughed.

And bled.

And with each passing minute, it had started seeming less and less funnier to Fred.

Until George's face turned pale as snow and he slumped onto Fred's chest, soaking his shirt in red. That was when it wasn't one bit funny.

He took him to the hospital wing, watched Madam Pomfrey force potions down his blue lips, willingly endured her severe scolding, _because he could have died, for Merlin's sake._

Sat beside his bed, counting the freckles, stroking gentle fingers over the skin that slowly regained some flush back.

And pressed a kiss to his forehead when he decided to open his eyes.

But at the sight of him lying fragile as a wilted flower, eyes half-mast, weak as they gazed at him, blood running down his neck, soaking his shirt and the cushions, Fred had knelt beside him, seized with a sort of terror that dulled his responses, paralyzed his heart, and made him not accept the sight as real.

 _"How do you feel, Georgie?"_

 _"Saint like..."_

 _"Come again?"_

 _"Saint-like. I'm holy.. Holey, Fred, geddit?"_

It took a few hours before he allowed the reality to sink in. It was only an ear.

He just scraped through.

 _It could've been more. He could've-_

"George.." Fred whispers into the dark. He is standing at the doorway to his twin's bedroom. He can make out George's silhouette, outlined in a faint orange glow of the street light. The blankets rustle as George stirs underneath them.

"Fred?" he croaks.

"I.." he trails off. He is feeling clammy and sick in the stomach. His heart is beating as though it is forced to, trepidation coiling it tightly, making it difficult to function.

"Can't sleep?" George guesses correctly. He says it as though it wasn't a tough guess at all. As though this happens often.

"Yeah." Fred wipes the sweat around his mouth with a hand.

George groans, but Fred knows that he really doesn't mind it.

Doesn't mind that if Fred and he share the bed, they won't sleep for the rest of the night. They would natter on and on in sleepy, murmured voices until two or three in the morning.

"C'mere." he invites, voice thick with sleep. He knows Fred would come to him anyway, with or without invitation.

Fred pads in, lifts a corner of the blanket, and crawls in beside George, who shifts and lays flat on his back. His eyes are closed, but Fred knows he is awake, waiting for him to speak...

"George.." is what he says softly.

"Yeah, that's me. Came here to remind me that?" he says in a slurred murmur.

Fred ignores the half-hearted teasing. He is watching him closely, instead. He wonders how long he would wish to see this face, this face that's like his own, but knows belongs to someone else, someone who's a little milder, someone who's like him in most respects, yet fundamentally different, holey ear included.

Forever, he decides.

"Bad dream." he says, finally.

"Mhm," George responds. "Want to talk about it?"

"No." Fred whispers. He can't hold it back anymore. He shifts closer and pulls George to him, who makes a small sound at the back of his throat but allows him to be pulled in nevertheless.

Fred knows that George knows. He knows what the bad dream was.

"If it offers you any comfort," George says, trying to rest his arm somewhere other than around Fred's night-shirt clad body, waving his arm up and down, before muttering 'bugger it' and draping it around Fred's waist. "I was dreaming about how the sales of our wonder witch stuff were soaring so high that we were..we were actually awarded for it, and offered prize money, and the trophy said 'Amortentia kings.'"

"How stupid." Fred pulls a face.

"Yeah, well, kind of stupid, but dreams are just that, stupid.." George trails off in a loud yawn. Fred smacks him on his back for doing that right on his face. George chuckles and wriggles, and Fred allows him to shift away from his arms and flop onto his back to rest comfortably.

"You know what," Fred suddenly says, turning his head to look at him. At that face that he has come to grow so familiar and fond of. "We'll get through. We'll get through everything, and I'll be seeing your stupid face until it grows wrinkly, until all your teeth fall off, and your holey ear grows white hair-"

"Oh don't get so creative," George says with a smile. "You'll look the same too, so shut your trap."

Fred smiles back at him, even though George can't see it with his closed eyes. He reaches a hand and smoothes a red fringe off his forehead.

"We'll get through." he repeats, quietly this time.

"You sound cock sure," George's voice is growing too throaty. Fred traces the tips of his fingers across his hair for a last time, deciding to not keep him up any longer. He is falling asleep.

"Yeah. You'll scare off all the evil with your holeyness."


	4. Chapter 4

"Orders from Ireland-" Verity checks the parchment held in her hand, and recites in clear voice: "Firehay from Donegal, stunned dungbeetles from Monaghan, live firebeetles from Ballymena; sixty galleons-worth each."

Fred nods in assent.

"Orders from Scotland: stinksap from Strathpeffer, rubber from Edinburgh, stickleglue from Muir of Ord, moonstones from Turiff, hundred, fifty two, hundred and twenty galleons worth each."

George nods along with Fred.

Verity looks up at them from her parchment and says seriously, "We are running out of truffles and pastilles. Should I add them to the list?"

"Oh no," Fred says, "We'll get those from honeydukes."

George nods. "Why let slip the chance to help our distant relatives share some gain from our business?"

"Your relatives?" Verity sure isn't the quickest broom in the shed, but they couldn't blame her for this. She's a muggle born, so she might not be well-versed with all the intricacies of pure blood family ties. If you trace back long enough, almost every pure blood family is related to one another.

They sure don't bother with explaining her all that. "Yeah," Fred says impatiently, "Flume and Weasley clans merge if you trace back to the bronze ages. Anyway, what else?"

Verity looks as if she isn't sure if it was a joke, but nods anyway, shaking blonde fringe away from her eyes as she prepares to reel off:

"Orders from Poland: Pigsnouts from, um..Podlaskie, hippogriff feathers from Mazo- Mazowie-eckiee.."

Fred sighs. Thing is, Verity herself must read the order to them, because they've put a charm as such. They turned a little strict after they found out she'd secretly ordered an extra box of instant tan powder. It wasn't serious pilfering, but they'd contemplated throwing her out anyway. But then George reasoned that they won't get anyone as compliant to do the somewhat dumb, menial tasks that they make her do, because it gets a little crazy for them with the managing of the customers and the making of all the products.

Fred leans in towards her to read, "Mazowieckie."

Verity nods, flushing. "Mazowieckie."

"Send the order right away." Fred says, and they make to move away. A gaggle of third years seem like they need some help around the sticky trainers section.

"Um."

They turn back together. Verity eyes them both with wide blue eyes, twisting her fingers together.

"I..I actually wanted to know if I could um..put in few more hours at work."

Fred raises a brow. "Are you still trying to atone for the tan powder?"

"No, no," she says quickly, flushing deeply. "It's just..I, well. My foster parents don't want me anywhere near them anymore, ever since they found out that we're under serious threat from someone who wants to..who wants to kill muggle-borns and all. So, I decided to rent an apartment and..I could do with some extra galleons." her eyes are downcast, hesitant to meet theirs.

"So, you want us to raise your pay for the extra hours _you've_ decided to put in."

Verity looks up at Fred, hurt. She quickly composes herself. "Well, sorry if it's too much to ask for." Gone are all traces of blush as Verity now looks like she wants to curse Fred to oblivion.

"Hey that's all right," George says quickly. Fred and Verity both whip their heads towards him. "You can put in an hour extra daily. We'll raise your pay by hundred galleons."

Fred's reaction to that spontaneous decision made without consultation with him is only an amused smile. Fred eyes him for a few lingering seconds, and George is almost about to turn to him and snap a 'What?' when Fred turns to Verity and shrugs. "Yeah, well. All right. We anyway need some help with charming a few puking pastille cauldrons to vanish all the sick."

Verity wrinkles her nose. Fred rolls his eyes. "You won't actually be vanishing sick. You just got to charm the empty cauldrons to vanish anything that's put in it, so it could vanish sick when it's got to." Verity's mouth opens in a comprehending 'o'.

"If that's all," Fred turns, and George follows. Those third years seem like they're about to trample down the sticky trainers section.

"So," Fred asks, "How can I trust you to be a dependable business partner?" he immediately sets about wrestling a frightened third year boy off the wall. The boy looks green for a few seconds before grinning in wonder and shouting a fervent 'Man that was so cool!'

"What?" George says this time. "Don't put the trainers on the wrong foot or you'll be thrown off the wall instead of being stuck to it!" he throws the warning at the younglings. They nod at him seriously.

"You just agreed without asking what I had to say about it." Fred accuses.

"Yeah, well, got any problem if I decide not to be a twat like you?"

Fred only laughs. "Right profits you'll bring us if you keep up with all the charity."

" _Fred_. A hundred galleons is nothing to us now," – he stops, and they somehow know that they're going to chorus ' _Touch wand'_ (and they do) – "But it'd mean a lot to her." George continues in an uncharacteristically Molly-ish tone, "Try being a little more thoughtful, especially during these..these times."

But Fred knows that he can loosen up and be a right prat about things and not care. Because George would always be there to balance things out.

He doesn't say that out loud, though. He only resorts to a below-the-belt, "Stop pulling a Percy, now."

George narrows his eyes. " _What_?"

"Stop being a pretentious twat."

"You're the twat! God, Fred! You are-"

"You are!"

"-the one who is a-"

"Oh shut your trap, you sound like a girl."

"-right tactless, insensitive git!"

But they are laughing, laughing as they haul a few squealing third years up and drop them down a spiralling slide that descends down straight into a tickling bath.

The third years scream their way down, before erupting into peals of laughter when they are dunked into the tickling bath. They can see them rolling and jerking around in helpless squeals.

They _both_ are thoughtful, _these_ _times_ notwithstanding.

That is why they are grinning as they stand shoulder to shoulder, finding joy in watching other's joy.

And George knows that Fred is not as insensitive as he lets on.

 _Because after his eyes leave those third years who are laughing silly, they settle on him, turning gentler, and George returns the gaze, before turning his attention away._

 _Because even after George walks over to the group of students huddled around pygmy puffs even though they don't seem like they need any assistance, he could still feel his eyes lingering on him._

It, once again, makes him want to turn to him and snap a 'What?'

But something tells him that he shouldn't.


	5. Chapter 5

It happened the first time when they were in sixth year.

 _Empty dorm room.  
Lee was off collecting bets for the next Triwizard task.  
"We should lock the door."_

It sounded wrong. As though they were eager about the imminent horror.

But they were just going to test a product. Like they test every other product of theirs. Who else could they put to risk but themselves?

They joked and laughed before the testing to kid themselves that what they were about to do wasn't disgusting, but ridiculously funny.

The aftermath wasn't all that funny, though.

George spent the next hour knelt before the toilet bowl, eyes screwed shut, dry-heaving.

 _It was a reflex reaction._

Lee wanted to know why they weren't talking, weren't even looking at each other for the next few days.

 _Something was wrong with their illegally brewed amortentia, though._

 _Fred was aware of every second of kissing George into the mattress. The potion hadn't fogged his brain enough to erase that fact._

And so the horror had to repeat one more time.

This time, George was the one who agreed to take it. This time, too, they joked and laughed before taking the plunge, _soothing the nerves, kidding themselves_.

George was blissfully unaware of the transgression when it was his turn.

The potion was perfect.

 _Fred hadn't had the urge to retch until his stomach cramped, though. He hadn't even felt disgusted._

 _He had given in to the sensations that his traitorous body had embraced, and he shivered when George whispered filth into his ear._

He thought he had washed away the sin, the tiny little indiscretion, when he took that long shower.

It was only some heavy making out. Not as if they had gone all the way. Such things, who knows, might even be common among other ridiculously close siblings. A little experimentation didn't kill. Come on, it wasn't even as if they both had been active participants to call it experimentation: one was under the influence of amortentia and the other had only been a somewhat passive-cooperative recipient.

They even joked about the whole thing later.

The aftermath of the second testing was laid-back, even funny.

They had more sense than to dwell on little things and unnecessarily blow them out of proportion.

They had too much going on in their lives to devote their attention to a single thing for more time than what's absolutely necessary.

It wasn't in their nature to _brood_.

So when Fred had asked Angelina to dance in a spur-of-the-moment decision that his capricious mind had made at the prospect of wounding Ron, George had been cool to sit by his twin's side with a little smile.

Because he knew, he knew that Fred's mind was far away from the topic of girls and dance even as the whole school was in a tizzy over it. He and George were busy worrying over their money and their products and their dreams.

A ludicrous character, Ludo Bagman, who cheated them and walked away with all their hard-earned money, a few dozen owl order forms that their dear mum had burnt to a crisp. _We're trying, Fred, we're trying so hard; yet why do we keep failing?_

Keep faith, he told him. George wanted to believe his slightly older brother. But then Fred went ahead and switched into his insensitive-mode when he pretended to be lightening the mood as he said:

 _We're mental, don't you think, Georgie? We'd literally do anything for money and success. We'd go to the lengths of kissing each other to prove everyone a point._

 _Shut up._

But in the Yule Ball, Fred's mind was blank when he lead Angelina effortlessly through their dance, jerked her close at the least expected moments, and kissed her as though he were in love with her.

George had gone without a date.

He had instead lent his shoulder to Lee that evening so he could cry on it, and his ear, so he could relate his elaborate plans to murder his twin. George had gazed across the hall at Fred and Angelina, elegant even as they were twined together closely, and the wry smile that had tugged at his lips when Lee had drunkenly hiccupped 'I'll kill him' once again was, perhaps, because he knew...

 _He knew that they both could go to any lengths to prove a point..._

Fred jolts awake, soaked in sweat, trembling. His bedroom is dark and quiet, and he pointlessly strains his ears to hear his twin's breaths from his bedroom. He squashes the instinctive reaction at once.

He isn't sure if the flashes of memories and the whirlwind of emotions that tore through him in his sleep just seconds ago, the effects of which still thrum through him and makes the fine hair on his skin stand on end, were just a part of his own dream, or George's too.

He feels a forceful yearning to walk to his twin and curl into his warmth and seek his comfort, but quells it harshly.

He can't give in every time.

This time, he forces himself back onto his bed, and sets out on a familiar, tiring battle with sleeplessness.

Half an hour later, he is forced to retrieve the little vial from his nightstand that says 'dreamless sleep potion', and knock it down, before sinking into merciful oblivion.

* * *

 **Intentionally confusing chapter. Infact I intend this whole story to be confusing.**


	6. Chapter 6

_Saturday morning.  
Empty apartment.  
Except for the twosome.  
Something feels amiss._

At least it does to Fred. George is humming tunelessly as he blunders around in the kitchen.

And then he realizes it.

It's that memory-dream. It's the dreamless sleep potion that he has to take on a regular basis.

"Hey."

George turns around at the quiet call, and smiles automatically at him. "Coffee?"

Fred nods, sliding into one of the four chairs around the small, square table. His fingers find a forgotten doily that was lying around on the table to mess idly with it.

A steaming cup placed atop it stops its movement.

 _How long until this lasts, George?  
How long until the last time you sit before me across this table  
With sleepy eyes and tousled hair, talking in quiet tones?_

"-that we might have to close down all the shops in Diagon Alley before long." George says.

"What?" Fred looks up at him.

George shakes his head gloomily. He doesn't mind that Fred is spacing out too often. He's milder than usual these days. More tolerant, more caring.

 _How long until-_

 _"_ Dad spoke to me, while you were in the bathroom. Apparated in uninvited, as usual," George rolls his eyes at their dad's endearing, irritating habit of popping in without warning to check on the boys. "Anyway, he was telling me that it might not be long before we'll be closing down all the shops here."

Yet another ice cold, imminent reality added to the pile of the rest that are waiting to be accepted.

Fred wants to gaze at his twin, find comfort in the familiar sight and delude himself and just wish all the intimidating reality away. He only ends up saying, "No other option, right? To keep the business going?"

George smiles wryly. "I don't think so." He spreads marmalade on a toast, and places it on Fred's plate. Their eyes meet, and George smiles softly at him. Fred looks down, his heart tugged.

"Great." Fred murmurs, squashing the intense emotions, swallowing down the lump before it gets problematic. "So the moment when all go unemployed because the bald git's turned all powerful is finally here."

George sighs. Fred jerks when he feels his twin's feet touching his gently. He looks up at him to see that he has that same tender smile on his face. It's on purpose.

 _An affectionate gesture._

That tender smile turns into an amused one.

 _Oblivious._

"What?"

Fred shakes his head, averting eyes, chewing on the toast.

"Hey.." He feels his toes skim up and down his feet. "It's okay. It's just a few months before we kick his arse. Besides, you were all 'it's like a wart' about the whole thing. What's wrong now?"

His tone is light.

Fred looks up at him, and can't help but return the smile. "Yeah. It's just- it's nothin'. Being silly."

"No," George coaxes, "Tell me."

 _It's okay if you don't play the older brother all the time._

Fred nods. George understands that he will speak, so he waits until they finish their breakfast.

And that toe brushes innocuously, once, twice, in the silence between them, until George deems Fred's calmed enough.

Fred gets up, and carries his and George's empty plates to the sink. George follows, casting the charms to wash them. Fred turns, and leans back against the counter when he finds George right before him, patiently waiting for him to speak.

Of course George knows that something's heavy on his mind. He just got the perfect excuse now that he faltered to drill him about it.

Fred doesn't know how to begin. Eventually, he settles on, "It's just that I.."

 _I don't like admitting my weaknesses._

George's expression turns gentler, if that's even possible, when he realizes that Fred would need his understanding for this.

"I can't sleep."

George sighs. Though not in exasperation. It's a soft sigh of compassion, and Fred releases a shaky one of his own when George leans in and takes his hands in his. His first instinct is to jerk it back, flustered, but he tries to keep calm and let it happen.

 _Nothing happens.  
It's only George showing the best of his mild nature.  
But every moment of it is precious to Fred._

"You can share the bed with me, if that'd help."

* * *

 **Hope this answered bubblecloudz's twins-in-the-flat-chilling request, though it's not quite 'chilling', nor much 'action'-ish. I have certain ideas for the story in my head, and am moving the story accordingly. Please share your views and ideas nevertheless, everyone. It'll help me steer the story somewhat to your liking, while keeping it consistent with my own ideas.**


	7. Chapter 7

Fred's chest feels constantly clogged and heavy these days. His jokes seem feeble. He's losing his touch.

 _It's as if he's anticipating something.  
Something irrevocably damaging._

It's still dark. The light outside is a hazy, deep purple- the depressing, early morning light that only tired souls who have stayed up the whole night would witness.

But Fred slept peacefully this time.

He had George by his side.

But the _something_ that's weighing down on his heart like a ton of bricks has awoken him as abruptly as being jolted awake by a slap to the face.

God, it's unbearable, this constant angst, this constant, utter _fear_.

He feels like a child that needs comforting hugs and loving words all the time.

And that thought is what makes him shoot up to a sitting position on George's bed.

God, what is he? Some helpless little cub that needs its sibling's warmth to survive the cold?

 _But how long until-_

"Oh for fuck's sake," he mutters, screwing his eyes shut.

He tries not to, he tries so hard, but like moth to light, his eyes travel to his twin lying beside him.

He is at peace as he sleeps, face resting sideways against the pillow, chest rising and falling gently under the blanket, red hair tousled and contrasting sharply as they lay spilled amongst the white of the covers and pillows and blankets.

Warm, safe.

 _How long until-_

His jawline is sharp, his skin pale, and those warm brown eyes that can shift through a thousand different moods – lively, jovial, quiet, considerate, even a tad wicked if he gets too in touch with Fred's spirit – rest hidden for now beneath his closed eyelids.

He is lanky, every bit like Fred; even somewhat ridiculously elegant in the way his bones are structured. Elegant shoulders, elegant long legs, elegant fingers, elegant neck...

And a severed ear that has left only a gaping hole in its stead.

Fear and protective love wash over him in waves, and his fingers reach to skim gently over the healed wound.

"We'll get through, Georgie." he whispers. George frowns and flips over in his sleep, turning his back to him, lazily dragging a leg across the bed and crooking it into an awkward angle. He has crumpled his blanket completely under him, crumpled his night shirt up to reveal his lower back, and ridden his pants up to his calf.

Fred pulls his own blanket and carefully drapes it over him to cover all the exposed skin, before quietly climbing down the bed...

And leaving his twin's bedroom.

* * *

"Hey mum."

Their mum leaps upon them to hug them both one by one, before her expression quickly turns from loving to admonishing. "Look at how _skinny_ you've turned! I keep telling you to come home on Mondays. But you insist on worrying us, and we're left with no choice but to apparate over to see if you haven't set fire to your flat yet!"

"We don't set fire to our flat." George says, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, mum. We're not you. Setting fire to things to prove a point." Fred says, a bit acidly, referring to the order-forms episode. He feels bad when their mum's face falls. "It's okay, mum. Just kidding," he says quickly, leaning in and hugging her.

"Freddie," she sniffs, and holds tighter to him when his hold slackens. "I'm sorry. I only wanted the best for you both." she releases her hold and regards them with misty eyes.

"I'm George." Fred says, smiling a little.

"Oh I know the sharp tongued one is you, Fred," their mum says. But she is smiling, wiping discreetly at her eyes.

It's Monday morning. After three weeks of being awol, their mum sending a rather shrill howler demanding their arses back in the Burrow is what got them scurrying to their home.

And so they are settling into the chairs around the table in their stuffy old little kitchen, and as he takes in the familiar smells and sights, Fred thinks that they should have dropped in more often.

"Here," their mum immediately sets plates of heaps of bacon and eggs and sausages before them, and they do not waste much time before taking hold of the fork and spoon and digging in. Two glasses full of orange juice follow, and Fred is reminded how abysmal his and George's culinary skills are, and realizes that perhaps their mum is right about them looking thin.

Their mum settles on a chair before them, and Fred could feel her eyes fixed on them. He looks up and raises a brow. She only shakes her head, eyes emotional and lines of worry around her face, looking as though she is trying to lock the sight of them to her memory.

There it is again. There it is fucking again. The constant angst and fear. It's starting to grate on his nerves.

Fred looks down at his plate and tries to quell his irritation.

"Where's dad?" George asks.

"Off investigating a new trouble that's come up. Someone's been bewitching muggle vehicles, and it's oddly spiteful. Not the usual, harmless things like incessant honking or changing colours."

"Oddly spiteful?" Fred asks, trying to focus on something else to shake off the mild irritation still clinging to him.

"Yes." their mum sighs. "It's something with the, um, _breaks_ , your dad said. Something they use to-"

"Stop the vehicle." George nods.

"Ah, yes." their mum nods, "Yes. Someone's been bewitching them to stop working. So the muggles are crashing into things and.."

"Road accidents." Fred helpfully puts in.

"Yes," their mum sniffs, anger and sorrow in her eyes.

"Yes. A lot of them are dying."

* * *

Their dad was back by evening, and related the events of the day to them over dinner. It was sad, and he sounded frustrated as he expressed his helplessness, but then quickly changed his tone and expression at a very pointed look from their mum.

He grinned at them and said that ' _oh but everything will be under control soon!'_ and to that, Fred had finally lost it and said, ' _Stop treating us like we're going to die tomorrow!'_ Their mum burst into tears, frantically summoning a parchment and quill and writing furiously to Charlie, moaning ' _Oh I don't even know if he has cut his hair yet! I don't know if he hasn't stopped trying to calm that stupid Icelandic dragon!'_

When she started crying over Percy next, slumping onto their dad's shoulder who was trying to calm her, they quickly took off from the kitchen and fled to their old bedroom.

Fred sighs as he finishes recalling their mum's silly crying match of the evening. He has finally finished separating the piles and piles of parchments and books that their mum had stacked to a corner of their room in their absence without bothering about their contents. While a seventy percent of the parchments had their scribbled, rough joke product ideas, the rest were actually a lot of silly notes that they'd written to each other (with Lee occasionally joining in) in McGonagall's and Snape's classes because they couldn't keep from talking to each other, and preferred not to get caught by them. The rest of the periods, they talked freely, because, well, Flitwick would politely ignore that they are talking, Trelawny was glad that someone was at least talking and not sleeping, while Binns never noticed a living soul anyway.

They hadn't gotten rid of any of the trash. They are memories, _their_ fond, little memories, and if one of them is ever to-

He stops. No, he won't go into that line of thought. He's acting just like their mum, for god's sake.

He turns, and sees George standing by their window, looking out into the familiar, beautiful sight of the countryside fields outside. Currently, it is bathed in moonlight, resembling a silvery dreamland.

He walks over to him quietly, and stops beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. George acknowledges his presence with a light, fond elbow to him. He pushes back just as gently.

And they stand side by side, staring out into the night.

"It's bright outside tonight. Lots of stars." George says.

"Mhm. Clear sky." Fred says.

George snorts lightly with laughter. "Look at us, commenting on the skies like centaurs."

"Yeah, well, unless you want to discuss on death and blubber over it."

George turns to look at him. Fred takes his eyes off the dark sky to look back at him.

George's eyes are quiet as the night, and Fred shivers a little as a blast of cold wind whooshes in through the window, flapping at their loose shirts and the curtains.

"Better to let it out than keeping it all bottled up, don't you think?" George says in an infuriatingly knowing tone.

Fred averts his eyes from him when George reaches a hand and threads his fingers through Fred's.

 _When it's just the two of them, George turns gentler than a fucking lamb.  
Light, innocent brushing of skin against skin to show that he cares for him.  
That there is nothing in this world that means more to him that Fred._

Fred's jaws tighten. He looks back into their room, eyes roaming over the messy beds, not seeing a thing.

A light touch to his shoulder has him jerking.

"Fred..."

"I'm sleepy, actually." Fred mutters as he shuffles over to his bed. "Good night."


	8. Chapter 8

But that hasn't always been the case.

Before the _something_ had started to add an aching weight to Fred's heart, he was the one who wouldn't back away from the chance to get a little physical with his twin. He'd need the silliest excuse, and he'd smack him, shove at him, manhandle him like he had a right to, pull him close, pin him to the floor...

 _Or to the wall, or to the bed. Any fucking surface.  
It didn't matter. Not then._

George is the pliant one, the younger one, the one who followed him into this world. He'd concede defeat, but not without making his _utter_ apathy known with a roll of his eyes, and a few half-hearted attempts at retaliating, yelling, laughing; _drop it, Fred._

No getting physical.

Unless you want to asphyxiate yourself with the _something_ coiling tighter and tighter around your chest, squeezing your lungs, crushing your heart, blocking your airways...

 _Because, tell me, George._

 _How. Long. Until._

* * *

This is getting stupid.

George has always known that his twin is a thick headed twit, but now he is just outdoing himself.

"Fred."

The form covered head to toe under the blanket lies still and quiet. Unresponsive as a rock.

George makes a noise of disbelief. He steels himself, and with a determined breath, walks up to the bed.

He stares down at the figure under the blanket for a few seconds, before grabbing an end of the blanket and yanking it roughly off the person.

Fred doesn't even bother faking. He stares back at him, quiet, deadpan.

George suddenly is a little unnerved by the complete lack of emotion from his twin.

"Why're you doing this to yourself?"

Fred averts his gaze, warm brown an impervious black in the dark of the night. He sighs, his eyes sliding shut, and a hand goes up to rake his fingers roughly through his hair; it's getting longer, Fred isn't bothering to cut them, so George doesn't bother with his either.

"George, go back to-"

"I heard you in the kitchen, and then in the storeroom," George interrupts quietly. "Is there something you were searching for?" He is aware that he sounds knowing, a little dead-serious, interrogative.

Exactly what he was going for.

Fred's eyes are still closed.

Though George knows he is far from sleepy.

In fact, he is _wide awake_. He hasn't slept a wink since he retired to bed early, claiming exhaustion.

Fred's voice is calm when he opens his eyes and speaks. But it is with a tired, hollow quality to it, and that turns George's insides cold.

"You took it away, didn't you?"

George nods. He doesn't know why, Fred never scares him, not really, but now he is on edge, carefully watching his face for the first signs of fury.

It doesn't come. Instead, he closes his eyes once again. George waits for him to speak, but that doesn't happen either. If he wouldn't have known better, he'd have thought that he fell asleep.

The cold inside him rapidly drops into a freezing chill. "Fred.." it's a whisper. A quiet, intense plea. "You've been really distant lately," George continues when Fred still doesn't respond. He has a feeling that this is going to be a long, agonizing entreaty. "You've got to talk to me about whatever it is."

Fred's brows crease in mild frustration. "It's nothing. Why don't you quit fussing over me and go sleep? We got to be up early to check all those batches."

George's reaction to it is making to climb onto Fred's bed.

That gets Fred's attention.

He hastily reaches and tries to stop George, flipping over quickly and blocking him.

George is prepared, gripping Fred's wrists and locking legs with his. It's not long before they are tangled together, half their bodies hanging precariously off the edge of the bed. George squirms, somehow manages to retrieve his wand from his pajama pockets, and-

" _Petrificus Totalus."_

George sighs, watching his twin lying stiff and still, frozen mid-swipe; only his eyes are alive, and they glare witheringly at him. He carefully tugs Fred's legs back onto the bed, struggles a little to lay him properly, before lying down determinedly beside him.

He then sets to watching his face. His eyes have gone back to cool quietness; dull resignation written in them as they gaze back at him.

Georg can't help but reach a hand and smooth his fingers in an absent, involuntary motion along his hair. " _Finite incantatem,"_ he murmurs. Fred closes his eyes, his body relaxing.

 _On edge._

"Stop mothering me."

"Mum's not with us. Who else will take care of a big baby like you?"

 _Not a trace of spite in their mellow, quiet voices.  
Then again, Fred isn't helping the conversation._

"Fred,"

"What?"

"Talk to me."

"I am. You're doing a good job of being a fucking pest and making me."

George tries not to let that deter him. He knows Fred can be a complete arse. Instead, he raises himself on an elbow, and continues watching his face.

He looks tired, and much older, like he's grown ten years in just one.

If anyone could see Fred now. Then again, no one else gets to see the real him.

George decides to dive straight to the point. "I asked you something." he says, in a careful, measured voice.

"What?" Fred's eyes remain closed.

"Why're you doing this to yourself?"

"Doing what?" he sounds calm. George takes that as a good sign.

 _Then he notices his shaking fingers  
Even as his face remains the picture of tranquillity._

"I told you, you could share the bed with me."

Silence.

 _Now_ George begins to feel it: he feels like a man hanging off a cliff, slowly losing his grip. He tries not to panic. He must keep trying.

 _Because no one else will._

"Fred…"

 _Closed eyes._

"Look at me. Please…"

 _Impervious.  
He's never felt this disconnected to his twin._

"Stop shutting me out." he drops his voice to a soft, low tenor. "We've been through a lot, and you've never been so distant with me."

A pause. He continues steadfastly when he gets no response.

"Now is the time, more than ever, Fred," George's fingers close around his twin's trembling ones. "When we must be close."

"Go away.."

George shakes his head, watching those closed eyes. He squeezes Fred's hand, stopping the tremors altogether.

"How long have you been taking the dreamless sleep potion?"

"George.." his eyes open. In the proximity, they have reverted to a mellow brown. He sees a tinge of fear and distress in them, and a plea to stop the ruthlessly gentle interrogation.

"No. Tell me."

 _Voice dropping, lower and lower._

 _He knows how to reach into Fred's soul._

"Since the…since that evening."

George waits. Fred doesn't elaborate on 'that evening'. George sighs, and soldiers on. "Which evening?"

"When you lost your ear."

"Fred." George sounds worried, "That long."

"Go sleep, George. Any more of being my mum and you'll be feeding me off a bottle."

"I won't."

"What? Feed me off a bottle? That's a wise decision, considering that I'd kill you if you tried."

George feels hope stirring at the small grin on Fred's face. He grins back, and dares to leave his grasp on Fred's hand to smack him playfully on his arm. Fred promptly returns a gentle shove. "I won't go away." George asserts sincerely.

Fred murmurs a submissive assent. His eyes slide shut once again.

But for the final, blessed time, it's because of sleep.

 _It's funny, and somehow, exquisitely heart aching, that he has been calmed by the same person who is also the source of that constant angst and fear_.

"How did you find out about the potion?"

"I found it in your nightstand."

"You went through my nightstand?"

"I knew I had to to find my evidence."

"And how did you know you had to look for evidence in the first place?

 _Saturday evening._

 _Busy hour. Customers pack every section of their shop._

 _Those amortentia are selling like hot cakes. Because, how long until they'd all lose the ones they love in the imminent doom. They might never know what it'd have felt like to be in the arms of that person who had always made their heart skip. What it'd have felt like to see them smile just for them._

" _Good thing that I found out how your slug-like tongue feels like in my mouth." Fred remarks quite casually to George as he hurls a buckyball to a girl. It sticks to her hand and doesn't come off even as she frantically flails her hand. She laughs and yells something at Fred._

 _George's heart stops. Eyes wide, he turns and looks at Fred as if he has sprouted antlers._

" _What?"_

 _Fred looks at him quizzically. "Well, you'd kissed me as though that was the best action you'd ever got. Not that you remember it, but I think your subconscious knows that I'm the better looking twin after all."_

 _George isn't even breathing. "When?"_

 _Fred narrows his eyes. "Uh, in our sixth year, you idiot. Remember us testing the amortentia on ourselves?" Fred snorts a laugh. "I'm still stunned by how dogged we were to make all this come true." he says, looking around at their shop with all its teeming products and customers. Fred laughs at him when he notices his slack-jawed expression. "Look at you, you've gone all dreamy." he leans in and pats him in mock comfort on his back. "Snap out of it, Georgie. You're never gonna experience it again, sadly."_

 _Fred continues to grin at him, until his attention is demanded by a few third years. He yells at them to hold their horses, turns to smirk at him once more, before leaving him._

 _George feels the ground shift._

"Because we've never kissed, Fred."

That takes away his sleep. Fred stares at him.

"What?"

"We've never tested amortentia on ourselves. We tested it on Lee. Tricked Angelina into giving it to him. That was what got them together in the first place, funnily enough."

Fred exhales slowly, lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

 _Back again to terror.  
Its a fucking rollercoaster with George._

"What.. but.."

It seems as if there isn't enough oxygen. He breathes harder, trying to get enough air in. It doesn't seem enough. No matter how hard he breathes, it just doesn't seem enough.

"Fred.. Freddie.. calm down.."

How many more of his memories have been altered by the potion? He knew he was treading on dangerous waters; using the potion without a healer's supervision on a regular basis to escape the demons of his mind, to chase an infuriatingly elusive sleep...

To avoid letting himself be calmed and comforted by his twin.

Is this moment even real? Or is it just another illusion created by the potion?

 _Hyperventilation._

"Fuck,"

"Fred. _Fred. Calm down, please."_

He feels himself being gathered into someone's arms, being caged in tightly. George breathes something into his ear, stroking his hair, his back, holding his legs down with his.

George keeps murmuring comforting words, until Fred slowly loosens his tense muscles.

"Is this even real?" Fred voices his fear, muffled against his twin's neck, "Or just some dream. Or a fucking altered memory? I don't even know.."

"Shh. This is real. You were running away from me.. I don't know why." George's hand runs against his back, and Fred tenses slightly against it. "But I got you now, before it got too late."

"I hate this."

"What?"

"Being comforted by you..like some fucking child."

"It's okay if you don't act the older brother every time, Fred. It's okay to need comfort. And I'm always willing to give you that. But you..you keep running away. You don't like admitting your weaknesses." George loosens his hold, only to draw back a little and gaze into his eyes.

In the proximity, George's eyes are warm, warm and liquid brown. Red, smooth strands fall across a flushed face. Fred must look away. For its too blinding, too exquisite.

 _This_ _ **something**_ _that coils around his chest.  
Squeezing his lungs, crushing his heart, blocking his airways._

 _Asphyxiation._

 _It's a fucking rollercoaster with George._

"Don't run away from me, Fred. This is okay. Us together, me offering you comfort, holding you like this,"

"Stop it, George."

"No, I won't. You shut everyone out, and whenever you talk its only to crack jokes with them." Fred isn't sure if George would ever use such words and tone with anyone other than him. "I've always been the only one you opened up to. And now you're denying yourself that too."

Fred tries to quell it for a few more seconds, before giving in and crushing George against his chest, sliding a hand into his hair, memorizing his warmth.

 _Now it comes rolling down without restrain.  
An avalanche._

"Don't wanna lose you," he breathes against George's hair. "I'll kill them all. I'll kill them."

It suddenly makes sense.

" _When you lost your ear."_

 _He had repressed his emotions.  
He had kept them repressed all this time._


	9. Chapter 9

_Little by little, the changes kept happening_.

George wakes up to the smell of eggs and bacon. When he reaches the kitchen, sleepy eyed and tousle haired and without even splashing some water onto his face, it is to find Fred hastily set plates onto the dinner table.

"You seem perky."

Fred looks at him with a grin. "Morning," He gestures at the breakfast carelessly. "Woke up a little early to rustle something up." he finishes a little sheepishly, busying himself with setting the table.

A smile tugs at George's lips. "Mhm. Be back in a minute," he gestures at his face. "Didn't even wash my face. Heard you in the kitchen and I.."

 _Felt concerned.  
False alarm, though.  
You've calmed._

Fred nods, though he still has a smile on his face, despite the implicit emotions in George's trailed-off sentence.

It seems like nothing can dampen his spirits today.

George is relieved, filled with affection. "Sleep well?"

Fred looks up at him, and grins.

Again, a little sheepishly.

"Yeah," he nods, quickly busying himself again with the mindless pottering-around.

 _I slept in your arms._

George is smiling softly all the while. "Good. I'll be back. Save me some, okay?"

Fred makes to chuck a little piece of egg at him, and George quickly ducks and leaves the kitchen.

Grinning a little.

* * *

He'd thought that their mum would kill them after the tragedy that happened in Harry's sixth year. Their instant darkness powder was what had played a crucial role in the mayhem that broke free. Malfoy had used it to smuggle those Death Eaters into Hogwarts. If it wasn't for their product, who knows, perhaps things would've played out differently, perhaps Dumbledore wouldn't have died, perhaps a few things would've been altered...

Perhaps Bill and George wouldn't have been injured...

They hadn't suspected that crackhead of a Slytherin boy who had blundered around in their shop in search of _hemp_ of all things in any way.

But maybe things happen for a reason. Maybe it all ties together in the end.

Whatever it is, when they had explained that Malfoy had never set foot into their shop, that if he had they'd have kicked him out and sent him hurtling faster than a bludger, their parents had wholeheartedly accepted their innocence. Everyone did. (Ron needed a good thwack to his head from a thoroughly pissed George, but in the end, he did, too).

Then again, even if they hadn't had a good reason to offer for their product being a co-conspirator, they all would've excused them.

Because, time is running out. There's just not enough time to hold grudges, to be stern.

There's only enough time to love.

 _Only enough time to love, until it runs out._

That is why, as their mum so eloquently likes to put it, people are eloping left and right, just like the last time.

That is why, Bill and Fleur, after deciding that their private English lessons have dragged on enough, decided to get on with it and get married. Their mum hadn't liked the young French lady; neither did Ginny, but they reckon it was only because she is too pretty.

That was until Bill got mauled.

 _Moody was there with them that evening. Then he was simply_ _ **gone**_ _._

Fred doesn't know how many shocks a heart could suffer.

That is when, in the silence of the night, he pulls George to him. He comes sliding in, easy, warm, pliant. A hand goes into his hair, limbs twine, _and when it comes tumbling down like an avalanche_ , Fred dots kisses along his ear.

 _Not his twin.  
He'll tear down the entire world.  
Not his fucking twin._


	10. Chapter 10

He hasn't ever pin-pointed what exactly that _something_ is.  
He thought it was the angst, the fear.

Tonight is like every other night. Them lying together. It's become the new norm.

Most of the times, they talk, about their family, their friends, Hogwarts, the Ministry, their past...

 _Third year at Hogwarts._

 _They have discovered another secret pathway, another amazing phenomenon of magic._

 _The Mirror of Erised._

" _It's actually 'desire' written backwards," Fred murmurs to him. They must be quiet; it's the dead of the night, and Mrs. Norris's ominous little 'mew' was heard right outside the room not a few seconds ago._

 _George looks uncertain. "Uh, I don't see anything particularly 'desirable'."_

 _Unless I consider a normal reflection on a normal mirror desirable._

The dreams they shared.

" _Oh, and a room just for exploding wands!" George says, suddenly remembering it._

 _Fred agrees. "Yep. And a room full of dungbombs."_

 _George sticks his head with Fred's and jots down something on the parchment between them._

 _And a flat above the shop.  
We'll be the only ones living in it.  
No pets except for a single delivery owl._

Their future.

 _Seems uncertain.  
And that's when..._

Fred slowly trails a finger along George's jaw.

"Mh, Fred." George murmurs, half asleep. "Stop it. Sleep."

Fred smiles softly. "Say the magic word." He keeps trailing it gently, down his neck.

George half smiles, half frowns. "Ugh, you're tickling me.."

"Say 'please, Fred'."

"Stop being a twat." George opens his eyes and frowns at him.

Fred leans in to leave soft kisses along his cheek.

"Fred."

Fred stops, pulls George a little more close, and whispers where his lips rest against his cheek. "What?"

"Stop it."

Fred draws back to look at him.

His cheeks are flushed, his eyes puffy, but their mood is like the frost.

Fred feels their chill reach into him.

 _Extreme chill. It sets his muscles on fire.  
Hypothermia._

He retracts himself away from George as though burned.

George tries to hold his hand, only to balance out the frost. It was real; the discomfort, the aversion. Fred had felt it to his bones.

"Just sleep. N' lemme sleep, okay."

Fred pulls his hand away the moment George's fingers slacken.

* * *

 _He had read it all wrong.  
He has finally figured out what the __**something**_ _is._

 _It's actually a monster._

 _George is gentle, mellow, warm, pliant_  
 _But there's a limit to how far he could be bent._


	11. Chapter 11

**For Shreya, my cool dude whose encouragement has left me feeling all giddy and happy. And for bubblecloudz. :)**

 **This chapter is mostly a cut-paste from the book. You'll know which parts are when the twc follows right after them.**

* * *

 _Mere months since the opening of their shop.  
Business rocketed within weeks.  
And the galleons that were raked in were more than they had ever anticipated._

It was Christmas holidays.

Bill and Fleur were going to be engaged soon.

It got a little stuffy in the Burrow, with Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny all coming for their holidays, and Bill, Fleur and the Order members (as they come and go) as the additional occupants.

 _This particular time is the time when they hadn't been strung so tight with fear and worry.  
They were a little at peace, a little laid-back._

"Yeah, well, passing over Fred's left buttock —"

"I beg your pardon?" said Fred as they entered the kitchen. "Aaah, George, look at this. They're using knives and everything. Bless them."

"I'll be seventeen in two and a bit months' time," said Ron grumpily, "and then I'll be able to do it by magic!"

"But meanwhile," said George, sitting down at the kitchen table and putting his feet up on it, "we can enjoy watching you demonstrate the correct use of a — whoops-a-daisy!"

"You made me do that!" said Ron angrily, sucking his cut thumb. "You wait, when I'm seventeen —"

"I'm sure you'll dazzle us all with hitherto unsuspected magical skills," yawned Fred.

"And speaking of hitherto unsuspected skills, Ronald," said George, "what is this we hear from Ginny about you and a young lady called — unless our information is faulty — Lavender Brown?"

Ron turned a little pink, but did not look displeased as he turned back to the sprouts. "Mind your own business."

"What a snappy retort," said Fred. "I really don't know how you think of them. No, what we wanted to know was...how did it happen?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Did she have an accident or something?"

"What?"

"Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain damage? Careful, now!"

Their mum entered the room just in time to see Ron throw the sprout knife at Fred, who had turned it into a paper airplane with one lazy flick of his wand.

" _Ron_!" she said furiously. "Don't you ever let me see you throwing knives again!"

"I won't," said Ron, "let you see," he added under his breath, as he turned back to the sprout mountain.

"Fred, George, I'm sorry, dears, but Remus is arriving tonight, so Bill will have to squeeze in with you two."

"No problem," said George.

"Then, as Charlie isn't coming home, that just leaves Harry and Ron in the attic, and if Fleur shares with Ginny —"

"— that'll make Ginny's Christmas —" muttered Fred.

"— everyone should be comfortable. Well, they'll have a bed, anyway," said their mum, sounding slightly harassed.

"Percy definitely not showing his ugly face, then?" asked Fred.

Their mum turned away before she answered. "No, he's busy, I expect, at the Ministry."

"Or he's the world's biggest prat," said Fred, as she left the kitchen. "One of the two. Well, let's get going, then, George."

"What are you two up to?" asked Ron. "Can't you help us with these sprouts? You could just use your wand and then we'll be free too!"

"No, I don't think we can do that," said Fred seriously. "It's very character-building stuff, learning to peel sprouts without magic, makes you appreciate how difficult it is for Muggles and Squibs —"

"— and if you want people to help you, Ron," added George, throwing the paper airplane at him, "I wouldn't chuck knives at them. Just a little hint. We're off to the village, there's a very pretty girl working in the paper shop who thinks my card tricks are something marvelous ...almost like real magic..."

As they set off across the snowy yard, Fred looked over at his twin. He was pulling his knit cap down, trying to cover his ears properly.

Fred snorted a laugh.

"What's so funny?" asked George, a little distractedly.

Fred shook his head, turned around and yanked the knit cap so that it covered his eyes. George spat stray hairs out of his mouth.

"Fred!"

"Pretty girl, eh? I should take your wand away before you show pretty girls your card tricks."

George made to pull the knit cap away from his eyes. Fred was too quick- flicking his wand and sticking the cap right where it was over his eyes.

"Fred!"

"You could do more than yelling my name over and over. Let's say, you could tell me who that pretty girl – who, god help you, seems dumber than Lavender Brown by the looks of it – is. _Not_ so fast, little twin." Fred grabbed the wand George had whipped out. George groaned.

"Fred!"

"It's sweet that you love saying my name."

George lunged blindly at him.

Fred evaded the flailing arms and grabbed George instead. Before his twin could kick and thrash, Fred turned him around quickly and pulled him against his chest, keeping him restrained.

 _Who's she?_

 _No one, you git. I was winding Ron up._

They were laughing.

 _Are you jealous, Fred?_

 _Of you? You can't, in your best day, pick the worst girl I could._

 _Oh but I was going to ask you if you are jealous of the girl._

 _What?_

 _"_ _I was going to ask you if you are jealous of the girl."_

 _Jealous of the- what are you trying to imply, you dungbrain?_

 _What it's supposed to imply._

 _There's no girl, is there? So quit being a dungbrain._

 _It was said with flawlessly masked happiness by the elder.  
The younger, on the other hand, felt a shiver that wasn't entirely due to the cold weather._

 _The elder's hold started to seem mildly indecent.  
The younger didn't want to play for laughs anymore._

"Fred, get my cap off my face."

"I will if you'll let me tease you about this until your last day."

"Fine. Just stop being a prat and do it, now."

The cap came released, and Fred pulled it away for him with a gentle hand.

"Now if you don't mind, could you stop cuddling me?"

"Gladly," Fred released him and stepped away.

And yet, and yet they only laughed at each other. George shook his head with a 'git' muttered under his breath.

 _Repression.  
The ego is depraved. It knows it.  
And it denies it tooth and nail._

* * *

That is why Fred has asked the shop girl in Honeydukes out on a date this Saturday.


	12. Chapter 12

_Repression.  
Because the psyche knows that the truth is so overwhelming that it'll consume you._

Daphne sits across the table with a small smile on her face. She is pretty; straight brown hair that falls gently to her shoulders, brown eyes, elfin little nose, a cute little mouth. She is wearing a low cut top and a little skirt, despite the slight chill in the air.

"You don't seem all that funny. Guess things are always overblown they pass around."

Fred looks at her with a quiet smile. "You don't know what a person really is like until you get to know them yourself."

Daphne's smile turns a little cheeky. "I'd like to know you."

Fred smirks. "You sure?"

"Positive."

He had made it clear to her right on their first date that he doesn't intend this to be more than a casual fling.

Fred raises his butterbeer. "Don't say that I hadn't warned you."

Daphne returns the smirk in kind. "No," she takes a sip of her own beer. "Even if you hadn't, I would've just taken it in my stride. How long do we have now? Weeks? Months? Might as well enjoy my time here."

"Ah," Fred chuckles. "Don't get so pessimistic." He looks at her over the rim of his glass. "Maybe I'll save you and we can keep doing this forever."

Daphne eyes him for some time. "Maybe we can do it tonight." she says quietly.

Fred lowers his glass. He holds her gaze steadily.

"Maybe we can."

* * *

The last time he had lost his control this way was after a win against the Slytherins in fifth year. That Ravenclaw girl had been a fierce Gryffindor supporter. With her dyed, flaming red hair, redder than any of the Weasleys, and the intricate lion and Gryffindor slogan tattooed onto her lower back, she had outdone Luna Lovegood in her Gryffindor fanaticism.

But what made it truly intense was that it was all for the Weasley twins. The best beaters the team has ever had. Two lanky, identically gorgeous boys, diving down, wind whipping at their hair and their jerseys...

And the sounds of exertion they made as they struck the bludgers with all their strength and sent them hurtling...

She'd begged him to make those sounds while he lost his virginity to her in an abandoned broom cabinet. He hadn't. He'd just fucked her, gripping her flaming red hair and tugging at it, hearing her moan _Fred, George, Fred..._

And when she moaned _fuck me, George_ , he'd driven violently into her for the last few times, moans slipping past his lips against his wishes, knocking her against the cabinet, again, and again...

He has Daphne pinned against the wall, with her back to him. She desperately gropes at the wall, trying to hold on to something. Fred enters without warning, though he is thoughtful enough to cast a spell before doing it.

She is shocked, he knows it.

"Fred.."

He takes her hair in a fist, grips it tightly, and fucks her; deep, short, quick thrusts that has her arching.

"Told you," he whispers into her ear, "You never know what a person really is like,"

She laughs a breathy laugh, turning her head and trying to connect their lips. He turns his head away. She chuckles again, before it ends in a sharp, stunned cry.

She has never been breached from behind by any other man except Fred.


	13. Chapter 13

_Typical Monday morning.  
The preceding night is always spent at Daphne's._

Fred sits up slowly, trying to create minimal disturbance as he carefully extricates himself from the sheets and her limbs. She looks beautiful.

Peaceful and innocent in her sleep; so unlike how she is when Fred has her desperate and writhing under him.

His intention now is to flee, before she grows too cosy with being nestled against him. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. He isn't an inherently bad person.

 _He is thoughtful,_ ** _these times_** _notwithstanding._

That's why he is picking up his clothes that are strewn around the floor and pulling them on at top speed. He is out of her house and disapparating within a few moments.

When he apparates back at some place, it isn't _their_ little apartment above _their_ little dream of a shop.

It's at the Burrow, currently heavily guarded by every known protective shields and spells.

For the time's finally here, now. The time when every last shop has been shut and people have retreated into hideouts.

He has to say 'Fredrick Gideon Weasley' to the gate, and answer a new personal question that it asks him, before it opens to him.

He enters the kitchen from the back door. The old, worn out doormat still says 'Welcome', the kitchen still smells familiar and comforting...

But the person sitting at the table, eyeing him steadily, quietly, seems far from 'welcoming'.

Fred avoids looking at even the vicinity around him. It's a mask of complete coldness he has on as he proceeds to walk in toward the passage leading to the staircase.

Their mum enters at that moment. She smiles wanly at him. "Fred.."

"Hey."

"When did you-"

"Just now." Fred cuts in, and their mum nods.

"Ah, well." she gets that look on her face, that hesitant-yet-businesslike look that means that she's about to tell him off for something 'gently'. "Fred, dear, I know you like that shop girl-"

"Her name's Daphne."

"Yes. Daphne. I know you like her – it's a shame you hadn't met her before – but..." her face softens, and she gets that worried, overly protective expression. "Try to stay here more. You know how dangerous it is out there, and to risk yourself for some girl-"

"She's not some girl." Fred cuts in again, curtly.

Their mum opens her mouth in some desperate retort, before her expression clouds over.

Like mother, like son.

She isn't a woman known for her patience or calm temperament. She's fiery and snappish. Always has been. Not even dark wizards' death threats hanging over everyone's heads would make her remain tender on them for too long.

"Do as you wish." she mutters as she brushes past him to clatter about with some dishes. "I'm sick of constantly worrying over you. Go walk into those catchers or whatever the hell is out there for all I care." She walks over to the person sat at the table and bends to press a kiss to the top of his head. "Here, dear." she says, setting a plate before him.

Fred rolls his eyes; displaying love for the younger to make the older jealous, as if that would make him listen to her to get her attention. Their mum still thinks of them as her little boys, but it's not just that; that tactic would never work on them, because the dynamics of their relationship is a little different...

 _Theirs is a bond that feeds off on each other's happiness.  
No jealousies.  
Unless there's one of __**them**_ _deviating from 'the bond'._

Fred leaves the room without another word.


	14. Chapter 14

_Typical Tuesday morning.  
He knows the reason for the emptiness that aches within him.  
The nights, the nights are always spent at Daphne's._

This morning, Daphne wakes up before him to hold him in place and thwart his escape.

"What would you like to eat?" she whispers close to his ear with a mischievous smirk. She is rubbing slowly against him, warm skin against warm skin, a leg draped around his waist, a hand roaming across his chest.

Fred exhales noisily, the last remnants of sleep leaving him as her warmth surrounds him and he feels the stirrings of arousal low in his stomach. He rolls around to face her. She comes sliding into his arms, soft, naked.

His hand roams across her arm, her back; warm silk under his palm.

"You." he says it against her neck, nipping lightly as he comes up. He feels the shiver that goes through her, her heart that flutters fast like a hummingbird's...

She tries to chuckle, to try and dilute some of that raw intensity that Fred always manages to send flaming through her. But then she finds those long fingers skimming across somewhere so intimate and dirty that her mind goes blank and her heart drums a violent beat...

No one. No one other than him. She'd let no one else other than him to do this to her.

She only gasps as Fred flips her around with one effortless push. She presses the side of her face to the pillow, closes her eyes, and braces herself. She knows what's to follow: a pleasure so overwhelming that it almost frightens her.

Fred gazes down at her prone form.

Pale, smooth back...

Short, _red_ hair...

He had asked her to dye her hair, go for a length like his own, and she did it for him.

Fred appreciates it deeply, that she could be so selfless for him, that she could do things he'd ask of her. He is grateful that there are no ridiculous discussions on fetishes.

She lays herself completely defenceless and bare for him, no questions asked, and he, in return, feels a love that's pure for her; a love that's almost non-physical...

 _Almost as if she's his own blood._

He goes down, closes his mouth around where she's quivering, and hears her gasp. Her eyes might've rolled back, her mouth might've fallen open. He looks up to witness the sight, to see her arms tensed and her hands gripping fistfuls of the sheets.

He returns, breaching her with his tongue, his breaths going rough and laboured.

And when he feels she is ready, when he is sure that she could take all of him through that tight place, he enters in one quick slide.

And then it's the same, unforgiving, rough rhythm...

With his face buried in her short hair, with the stray red strands dancing before his eyes, blurring his vision, emptying his head...

Hard, relentless, no breather given. Not a second to let her heart catch up to the pace.

" _Fred!_ "

 _No breather. Not a second to let him fight back.  
And it will be rougher. __**Uglier**_ _.  
Because there is no other way he_ _'d_ _get the chance to hold him, feel him.  
Feel him alive. Feel all of him._

 _He drives into him, his name a repetitive hymn inside his head, hears him scream, weep, try to escape from the blinding pleasure that Fred gives him._

 _When he comes, it's with the smooth, red strands and the pale skin fading in and out of his sight._


	15. Chapter 15

It's night. George stares at the mirror in the bathroom.

 _The ebb and flow of each other's thoughts cannot be blocked from their intimately connected minds. Every little nuance is picked up._

He knows Fred can be a complete arse.

He knows he doesn't like admitting his weaknesses.

He knows he likes to play the older brother.

Be the dominating one.

Be the protective one.

 _He is supposed to be the one to be there for him through everything._

Today, the Prophet carried the news of how The Dark Lord has promised another million galleons for the one who presented Harry Potter to him; there was particular stress on how Harry must be alive and in condition to fight back. The Snatchers have caught a dozen more muggle borns and ended their lives. The Dark Lord's men are hunting for every single person who is associated with being on Harry's good side.

It's been two weeks since Ron left them. He had shown up a few weeks before that in the middle of the night, haggard and just _beat_. Their mum had showered all the love she has - and that is quite a lot – what's more, with her fierily protective side suppressed (it took a lot of effort on her part for that). He has never seen their mum gentler.

And then Ron left. They hear from Ginny through letters; she is holding up somehow at Hogwarts, and all he could do is hope that nothing gets to her in the place that has gone from being the safest to the most perilous. He really doesn't want any more woes to be added. Not now.

The time when Fred kept taking dreamless sleep potion and running away from him, trying to block one end of _the bond;_ thatwas _nothing_.

Now, George just sits listless, staring out the window of the bedroom that he has all for himself. The bed at the side is empty. He still changes its sheets; he doesn't know why he does that.

 _You better give me a good reason for why you've gone back to being an arse!_ _You can't be wanting to fuck her every single moment until this all ends_ _! Fucking look at me! What- now where the_ _ **fuck**_ _are you going?! Stop – fucking – running – away!_ _This isn't really about fucking your life to death, is it. What is it that you really_ _are you scared of?!_ _One of us dying_ _? Well then let's die together! If I die, you can end your life! Yes, I'm telling you to end your life if_ _that's to happen_ _! And I will end mine for you if you're the one to leave me the first!_

 _I will end_ _-_ _mine_ _-_ _right_ _-_ _now if you won't stay!_

 _ **Fred!**_

 _Fred Fred Fred fuckin Fred._ George takes a shuddering breath, then exhales slowly.

 _After_ _the dreamless-sleep-potion_ _phase of running away was a phase of coming closer. A phase of sweet kisses to his hair, his ear, his neck, his cheek. A phase of twining limbs and sweet nothings whispered against his skin._

 _Until his other half sensed the frostiness that met the growing fire._

 _George_ _feels_ _tremors_ _go through him unbidden_ _._

Fred's paler these days. There are no jokes, no laughter; so his skin has forgotten it's flush.

There are dark circles under his eyes; his hair is a little longer, jaw a little more sharp... _He's going gaunt..._

George thinks as he stares into the mirror.

 _Their bodies are in sync, identically losing vigour. Since_ _ **the bond**_ _is a permanent one, sealed at the moment of their creation, their souls stay connected even as there's such friction; the result being them getting scratched and damaged._

 _No laughter.  
No vigour.  
They've lost their identities.  
They've damaged the material of their soul._

 _What if he is playing the older brother?_

George stares at the pale, grim face. He shakes his hair slightly and lets it cover his injured ear. He then lets his eyes go colder, yet somehow make a certain fire dance beneath their veneer.

There, now Fred is staring back at him.

 _You're playing the older brother, aren't you?_

Fred keeps staring at him; aloof, cold.

 _I can see the fire you try to hide beneath your coldness, you little piece of shit. Do you think that I'm blind?_

George watches as tears spill quietly down those eyes.

 _ **Fuck**_ _you, Fred._


	16. Chapter 16

_George mans up and asks himself the harsh, unavoidable question:  
How. Long. Until? _

_How terrible will it be if the last of their memories are of their damaged souls, of their broken bond?_

 _Theirs is a bond that could reanneal with the magic of love._  
 _No matter how frayed, how damaged..._  
 _He could stitch it back._  
 _It's never too late, never too damaged._

 _He knows how to reach into his soul...  
Slowly, gently, like soft feather falling down in still air._

It's night. George watches from a distance as Fred walks up the stairs, heading to their bedroom. He is going to take a quick shower, pull on some clothes, and then leave for his girlfriend's.

He has seen her. Fred brought her to the Burrow a week ago.

She's pretty. A pretty brunette who has chopped her beautiful long locks to shoulder length and dyed her hair ginger.

She is lively, a little playful, and George - unlike their mum - was only amused and glad to play along with her light-hearted flirting. She had gazed at him in wonder, head tilted to a side, and declared that she'd bring bigamy to effect if that was the last thing she did. Their mum had choked on her pumpkin juice and stared at her, scandalized. George had only laughed.

 _Fred had stared straight at him, meeting his eyes after a long gap of avoiding them._

 _And George could interpret those eyes. He answered the question that burned through their depths.  
His answer was:  
I don't hate her, Fred.  
_ _ **I hate you.**_

 _Then he realized the hollowness of the statement. Because the truer one is:  
_ _ **I wish I could hate you.**_

 _But ours is a bond that feeds off on each other's happiness, isn't it, George?  
I deviated from our bond..._

 ** _You deviated from your right mind, Fred.  
That doesn't account for jealousy._**

George walks up the stairs, slowly, steadily, gripping the railing tightly, for his legs feel too weak.

Their parents have retired to bed early. None of their siblings are here. The only ones awake are him and his other half.

He pushes open the door to their bedroom. It wasn't locked. Because George would steer clear of the place when Fred is in there. That was yet another new, unvoiced norm that they had made.

Until now. There are no steady norms for them, he supposes.

He walks quietly to the bathroom. The light is on, the shower is running, the clear curtain is fogged; he can see his blurred form. There is his flaming red hair, his head thrown back, his hands moving across his hair. His eyes might be closed against the water, his vision might be red against the light, his fingers might be running through the soaked locks...

He might not even be aware of the sounds of George's slow footsteps.

The tremors now shake through him. His throat has closed up, his breaths choke in it.

His fingers reach the curtain, and he tugs it aside.

He can see how his breaths have stopped, how his eyes have widened; it's shock, before his eyes go dark quicker than magic.

George steps in, and starts to tug his clothes off.

Fred has stilled completely, the water pouring over him, as he stares at him in a sort of disconnected daze.

He stands, unmoving, as George steps into his personal space.

 _Naked._

Only his chest is moving rapidly, his heart is quivering frantically, his breaths are coming in short, shallow puffs...

He closes his eyes.

 _He had it all wrong. He always has it all wrong, doesn't he?  
He thought that it'd be rough, unforgiving, ugly..._

George takes his lips softly between his.

A moan slips past Fred's lips instantly; his heart can't take this. It can't.

Yet, in a flash, he lets his heart risk the intense overload.

 _Nerves firing rapidly..  
A dull roar..._

Fred brings his hands up to cup his sweet face, and deepens the kiss. It feels strangely memorable, as if they've kissed a thousand times before.

"I could stitch it back," George whispers as their lips part softly. A strangled, tortured sound escapes Fred as he crashes their lips together again.

The sound of water pouring drowns out the quick, laboured breathing. "Our bond," George gasps as they part for air. Fred seals their lips together again. It turns a little rough, a little deep...

"It's never too late for us, Fred, is it- ah," George lets Fred search deep within his mouth, lets his hands tangle tightly in his soaked hair, lets him push him to the wall and kiss him against it, lets him press his body to his, bracing them both from the vertigo that seizes them...

"It's never too damaged.. We could always stitch it back.."

Fred answers in more kisses; soft, deep, rough, gentle. He brings his lips against his jaw, leaving such soft kisses that George feels his heart ache...

George opens his eyes and stares at the water that comes pouring from above. His lips part in a choked breath as Fred leaves little nips along his neck..

 _Slowly, gently, like soft feather falling down in still air..._

George brings his hands across his shoulders, trails them softly down his back, his waist..

When Fred lays his twin on his bed, the two of them soaking the dry sheets with their wet bodies, it's with delicate care.

His little twin, his soul mate.

His whole life has been spent living for him, the one who added meaning to his life ...

When he enters him, after a long time of slowly breaching him with his fingers, it's with him lying under him, facing him. Fred pulls his legs to his shoulders, and descends down on him, gently folding him in half. George closes his eyes, presses his head sideways to the pillow, and lets the tears flow...

"I love you, George.."

George's breath hitches in a half sob, but he has barely heard the whispered words as Fred reaches deep within him in slow, insistent thrusts.

 _Slowly, gently, like a dance to be remembered..._

Fred closes his lips over his; their lips tremble over each other in shuddered breaths..

Fred cries softly with him, even as he comes deep inside him.

 _And he loves Fred back._

 _He loves him with the same intensity as that of the raw repugnance that coursed through him._


	17. Chapter 17

_How. Long. Until._

 _And that is why George has knocked down the only boundary that had stood between them and let his twin show him what it is like to cross it._

George wakes up in his arms.

He lets out a shaky sigh, and stretches ever so slightly to loosen his muscles. They ache a little.

Because Fred has him ensconced.

And last night, he had lain under him and let him make love to him until they both forgot all the right and wrong, all the implications.

George shivers wherever his skin touches Fred's. He shudders out an involuntary breath.

Fred opens his eyes to his twin twined intimately with him. Bare, sleep warmed skin, and the scent of last night.

George watches him; Fred is sleepy eyed and tousle haired, with a certain air of sadness about him; of hesitation, of apprehension. George can feel how his muscles have tensed.

"George.. I.."

"It's okay.." George smiles softly at him, reaching a hand and gently petting his hair, undoing the tightly coiled tension and dissipating the heaviness in an instant. "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

 _Such an understatement. They both know it. No need to mention it._

"You'd..you'd cried.." Fred states timidly.

George smiles languidly, blinking lazily at him. "And you'd cried too." he murmurs.

Fred traces a delicate pattern along his ear, his jaw, as he looks at him tenderly. He is radiant in the morning light; eyes a liquid brown, hair a spill of fiery red silk. "Why did you cry?"

"Why did _you_ cry?" George counters, smiling calmly.

"I.." Fred falters. He closes his eyes for a moment, opens them again to look at his face. His bearing is sweet, gentle; something that makes Fred love this person who looks like him, yet isn't him...

"Because I love you so much," he whispers it, like it's something sacred, something so pure, so delicate, that it must only be uttered in the softest of tones.

 _Because I've always loved you. Because I saw it's deep depths and was shattered by its magnitude._

 _What was it for you, George?_

"Did I hurt you?" Fred asks, desperate to know the meaning behind the tears his twin had shed, yet shying away from asking it directly a second time.

"No," George whispers, still smiling that soft smile. "You were gentle. As though I'm something fragile." he ends in a playful chuckle, and Fred smiles sheepishly.

 _Look at them, lying wrapped inseparably together and whispering like lovers..._

 _But what is this for you, George?_

Fred takes a short breath, wanting to ask it aloud, but falters.

 _So anxious and jittery before the person whom he has known since the moment of his creation._

"Your heart is hammering," George murmurs. "I can feel it.." he places a palm over his chest, wedged between their twined bodies. "Relax.." George whispers it like honey dripping, and Fred is intoxicated by the scent, the sound...

George traps his lips softly between his.

He forgets how George has avoided giving his reason for the tears.

* * *

 _The quiet lull of the morning after wasn't to stay for long, though.  
Because Fred would be reminded of it soon.  
He would be reminded of it again and again._

 _The way George had closed his eyes, pressed his head sideways to the pillow, and let the tears flow..._

 _Because the ebb and flow of each other's thoughts cannot be blocked from their intimately connected minds. Every little nuance is picked up._

Fred loves him in the nights with a passion that alternates between mild and violent.

Sometimes, George would turn his back and curl with the blankets drawn high, trying to drown in the sheer heat that fills his body, the blush that flames his skin.

Its shame. No matter how hard he tries to deny it. How hard he tries to quell it. How hard he tries to reason:

 _This is necessary._

And then he would feel Fred's lips over his neck, his jaw. Fred's hand skim gently over the smooth insides of his thighs, and when he moves those long fingers along a slow trail until he reached _there_ , George would be burning up, consumed entirely by the _sheer heat_..

Fred always turns him around to face him. It's always with him above, dominating him. Gently, like their first, most of the times.

But sometimes, when George doesn't shut his eyes against the _sheer heat_ , he would stare straight into Fred's. Those eyes never seem lost. They're always on him, narrowed and dilated.

That's when Fred sees his soul and recognizes the shame, and that's when he goes from mild to violent.

 _Bitter and cheated._

When this happens, Fred asks him a lot of things he normally wouldn't.

If he likes doing it with him, if he likes it when he fucks him hard, if he has ever been fucked like this, if he has ever fucked anyone else. George doesn't respond the first few times as he turns his head stubbornly and closes his eyes, jaws setting hard and teeth grinding against the pain. But soon, he forgoes his pride, as love wins out.

 _George looks at him and moans the words Fred wants to hear through tearful eyes, the distress in them stoked into a fire as angry as Fred's..._

Fred drives into him with a rhythm that builds to a shrill crescendo, until he empties himself, all his anger, all his bitterness...

 _Despite everything_ , George accepts him, with his alternating moods, with his deep, dark depths and his limitless love, his embitterment and blind faith, his dominance and powerlessness...

When Fred relaxes his taut muscles and collapses down, pressing him down into the mattress, George would only stroke his back, pet his damp hair, kiss softly along his ear, and reiterate in a gentler voice that he loves him.

No matter how hard Fred makes it for him.

 _But what Fred really wants to ask is:  
Do you love me the way I love you?_


	18. Chapter 18

_The younger and the older sit at a little desk in the sanctuary of their bedroom - their little, closed-off world - carotty heads stuck together, whispering to each other as they scribble something every now and then onto a parchment between them._

 _Its like they've travelled back in time- to the summer holidays. And they're glued together inseparably, holed up in their bedroom and etching their minds onto parchments._

 _At such times, George cannot believe that there is anything more to their relationship than meets the eye. That what they have between them is anything more than just innocuous love of soulmates who are together since the moment of their creation._

 _Fred proposes an idea, laughing quietly at its absurdity. George loses himself in the familiar mirth of his brown eyes._

 _The same that are capable of turning darker._

"George?"

He comes out of the trance. He nods, chuckles, and agrees with him.

"Right? Right?" Fred asks, laughing along, "We could put it up right in the middle of Gringotts!"

George smiles, looking into his eyes again. The proximity - the warmth, the scent, the feel of it all - only comforts him. He can't make out if he feels this comfort just because Fred is. That if this frame of mind is because he himself really is in it, or if it's yet another manifested magic of _the bond_.

Fred ducks down to scribble his messy scrawl onto the parchment. George is still smiling as he playfully bumps his hand against Fred's, making it difficult for him to write. Fred exclaims a 'Hey!' as he finishes somehow, then drops the quill to tackle George's hands. He pulls him close without a warning.

George waits.

 _With a sickening trepidation._

He only receives a press of lips to his forehead.

It's strange and sweet. It brings in old memories of stolen candies and sticky little fingers and a sloppy kiss to the forehead.

 _"Don't let anyone know that I kissed you, George, or I won't steal 'em for you anymore."_

George feels a stab of pain.

He doesn't know why he does it. Why he gently pulls Fred back and kisses him in the mouth.

He doesn't want to fuel this fire that rages within his twin.

But he doesn't want Fred to run away from him once more, not now, and not because of a fire that took stronghold within him and set flame to that innocuous love.

Because it's love all the same, no matter how ablaze and extreme.

When they pull back, George shies away from meeting Fred's eyes; he knows they're too loving, too intense.

He isn't sure if he could handle it amidst the parchments and the half-burnt doormat that they'd tried to charm with jelly-legs jinx - things that remind him of the uncomplicated times. He isn't sure if he could handle the jarring paradox.

* * *

Easter arrives, and with it, Ginny.

She breaks down the moment their mother engulfs her in a hug. As she relays the horrifying state Hogwarts is in under Snape and the Carrows, they could only watch her whimper and jerk with sobs. Fred is the first to speak up and forbid her from going back to Hogwarts. They all second him. Ginny is to stay. There is no way they are sending her back to that hell hole.

As the days pass, her initial misery slowly, but surely, lessens, chased away by the warmth and love that family and home provide her.

This particular mild morning, they are seated around the table in their kitchen. Fred and George have the Daily Prophet spread between them. Their dad ambles in and takes a seat opposite them. Their mum places a heap of bacon on the table before taking a seat next to him. Ginny pulls loaves of bread toward her, then lightly bumps her leg against George's, gesturing at the marmalade. He quickly passes it to her before sticking his head back to Fred's and peering at the newspaper.

It's a typical morning; their mum and dad would be gone after breakfast to Lupin's place. Tonks is nearing her due date. She is quite alright, but their mum worries nevertheless. Thing is, they won't be taking her to St. Mungos for the birth. They'll be having it right at Lupin's place. Because St. Mungos, of course, isn't anymore the St. Mungos of the pre-Voldemort times. Not being seen is the whole purpose of them hiding.

"Hmm, look at this crazy new theory-" Fred says.

George reads aloud the article that Fred is tapping his finger at. "Harry Potter, who is actually the son of a deranged muggle diagnosed positive for venereal disease, and who had later been adopted by the Potters, has not one drop of magical blood in him, which makes him deserving of a title worse than 'mudblood'. All of the magical abilities that he possesses had been accidentally passed on to him through the Dark Lord the night the Dark Lord had taken certain steps that were of utmost necessity to avoid the horrifying consequences that Harry Potter's continued existence would create.

"But as we all know, that unfortunate night, the Dark Lord failed. Hence it is upon us, the purebloods, and what little number of sensible half bloods we have in the magical community, to help capture the abomination that is Harry Potter, who has been disrupting the Dark Lord's efforts and struggles, so that he could be eliminated as soon as possible, so that you, me and the entire magical community's prosperity and happiness could be realised under the Dark Lord's righteous rule."

"Who's the author? Oh, Rabastan Lestrange! No wonder." Fred says.

"He is _literate_?" George asks incredulously. "I've always had this image of him as an unwashed loon stuck in some basement."

"That'd be his sister in law." Fred says. "Although," he pauses and frowns at George, "Nah that applies to Rabastan too." George shakes his head at him and shares a quiet laughter with him.

"Are you two going to Angelina's today?" Ginny asks suddenly, referring to _Potterwatch_. They can sense that she doesn't want them to read more about Harry. It's a little peeving, sometimes a little extreme, but she still is sensitive to hearing 'Harry' mentioned more than thrice within five minutes.

"Oh yeah." George nods, leaning away from Fred as he goes to pile food onto his plate.

Because Lee's place was raided by the Death Eaters after their last airing, which was two days ago. They had received the Jordan's frantic patronuses in the evening; they sent one back to them telling them to immediately apparate over to the Burrow.

The reason for the raiding was because Lee had forgotten to put the new password to the program, as they do for each airing, so that it would be secure. This one had gone open and it took no time for the Death Eaters to act.

Soon, Angelina was informed by Lee, and the Johnsons invited the Jordans to their place.

"How could that boy be so careless." their mum grumbles about Lee.

"I never have asked this, but _how_ do they work, those frequent moderators?" their dad asks, fantastically switching the topic as he sensed their mum would most probably end her anxious rant with a ban on them contributing to _Potterwatch_. He tries to appear nonchalant as their mum shoots him a peeved look.

"It's _frequency modulator_ , dad," George says, grinning.

Interestingly enough, the radio station that they're using for _Potterwatch_ is nothing but the modulator and the microphone that their dad got from one of his own raids. Their dad, no doubt, is well-versed with all the magic-related workings of muggle items –it's his area of expertise; he is the one who gave them the idea to put their band under a password in the first place.

It is the muggle-related mechanisms that he doesn't quite understand.

"Well, you have the microphone, right-" Fred begins.

"So when you speak into it, there are these signals-"George says.

"Oh yes! Eclectic signals!"

"Electric signals, dad!" Ginny exclaims, laughing.

"Hey, wait, how do _you_ know that's what they're called?" George frowns.

"I _did_ have muggle studies all right."

"Oh, you kids really do have more to study than we did." their dad says with a reflective look.

"We _used_ to. I mean topics like these, like muggle inventions and all that." Ginny says.

"Oh yeah," Fred frowns, "Under the current education system, our incredibly wise-"

"Charming," George adds, sensing exactly where Fred is going.

"Professor Alecto Carrow must be imparting valuable knowledge on how to give the muggles-'

"Venereal disease." George cuts in, and Fred is taken by surprise. He was just going to say 'hell'. He looks at George and laughs.

"You're such a pig!" Ginny reprimands for bringing that article up, kicking at his leg.

He watches Fred, while he absently rubs at his shin where Ginny had kicked. Fred has gone back to explaining the workings of radio station to their dad.

 _George's absentminded grin fades to a soft, wry smile as takes notice of the air in the kitchen that morning- family, and breakfast, and newspaper, and light banter._

 _His eyes find Fred again. He's engaged in the same conversation with their dad._

 _It's so typical and normal through the day. Come night, and it's like the first night with Fred all over again._

 _It's unbelievable._

 _It's a jarring paradox._


	19. Chapter 19

_It's a paradox.  
It's sickening and heady and deeply special.  
It's his Fred.  
_

George shakes underneath Fred, with each slow push, as Fred holds him close with a hand gripping his hair and another delicately framing the side of his face.

"You know, George," Fred whispers, voice strained, lips touching his ear, "I couldn't ask you this before but, maybe I could now.."

 _Because Fred has grown so comfortable with this facet of their relationship.  
The initial hesitancy and insecurities have all but dissolved._

 _Have all been forgotten by Fred under the delusion the repeated physical intimacy has created._

"Mm," George responds, his nails pressing into Fred's shoulder blades. He moans quietly as Fred reaches deep within him.

"You do love me, don't you?"

George breathes out a laugh. "Oh I don't. I hate you and that's why- ngh.. I spend my every breathing moment with you,"

Fred pulls back from the crook of his neck and meets his eyes. "No," They moan together as Fred quickens his pace. "Fuck.. no,"

George is quickly losing the thread of the conversation as he throws his head back. He digs his nails into Fred's skin, tightens around Fred, and hears only the rush of his own blood.

"I mean, do you- do you- oh," Fred pants harshly, wanting to slow his pace and tug at George's hair harder and yell at him to stop playing because he knows what Fred meant. He only could drive harder and harder into George, hear his moans fill his ears, feel him tighten impossibly around him.

"Oh, shit," Fred stiffens, and almost blacks out when he comes inside him. He takes George in his hand and tugs at him before he could even recover from his own tremors. George trembles and with a quiet, drawn-out keen, comes undone.

"You know what I mean, George," Fred says, breathless, watching George turn boneless under him.

George kisses his cheek softly and chuckles. "Of course I do."

" _Look_ at me and say that." __

George meets his eyes.

Fred is swept away by just how _beautiful_ his twin looks at that moment. He feels his heart grow heavy.

He wants to hit him, abuse him, and heal his hurting spirit with the power such dominance would give him.

He could only lean in and kiss his lips gently, when he has him under him like this – so compliant and drained.

Face flushed and hair a mess and eyes dark and drowsy..

"I do," George repeats gently.

Fred leans in and kisses him again, once, twice. He wants to demand a better reply, a firmer reply; he wants to hear _more_. Something about the way George says it just doesn't sit well with him, has never sat well with him.

"No, you don't," Fred murmurs against his lips.

"I do,"

"You do what?"

"I do love you,"

"But you're not in love with me,"

"I am," George chuckles again, returning the gentle pecks Fred places on his lips.

"No, you're not," Fred says, heart growing inexplicably heavier by the minute. He tries to breathe, but his throat just isn't letting the air in.

"I love you," George repeats simply, kissing Fred properly.

"No, you don't," Fred shakes his head and whispers when they pull back. His chest is so clogged, he barely breathes. He becomes aware of the tears only when George smoothes a gentle hand over his cheek.

"Shh," George strokes a hand down the expanse of his back, and buries the other under Fred's hair, pulling him flush against him.

He says nothing after that; he keeps petting his hair gently, until he falls asleep over him.


	20. Chapter 20

_With Dean and Ted Tonks' capture, they are shaken and shattered. Dean returns to recount his harrowing brush with death._

 _Ted Tonks doesn't._

 _The funeral held for him was supposed to be peaceful. His wife and daughter had the right to grieve for him in peace but that is too much to hope for in this nightmarish place._

 _There's always some tiny lapse, always some tiny fault-line..._

 _The funeral was disrupted by the Death Eaters. It isn't like before, when they weren't yet taken over completely by Voldemort. Now, there's just no escape. It isn't anymore something that you could miss by a hair's breadth and then heave a sigh of relief, and maybe even laugh about, reassured by the fact that there's still time until the danger is to become imminent._

 _They're hanging by a thread now, until Harry comes out into the picture, and ends it, for better or worse._

 _They're groping in the dark. They don't know if they stand a chance, if they're just fools who have retreated into hideouts, having pinned all their hopes on a hapless teenager, waiting for him to rescue them all._

* * *

The Burrow is now home to three more people: Remus Lupin, his wife Nymphadora and her mother, Andromeda Tonks.

Their mum keeps inviting Bill and Fleur too so they'd always be before her eyesight, as if that would somehow protect them from danger. But as for them, they really prefer Shell Cottage over the Burrow's stuffiness.

When all is said and done, it meant that Tonks would be having her child at the Burrow.

It would have been a merry, albeit a little frantic scenario. If not for Ted Tonks' death.

After the incident, they've grown even more cautious, if that's possible. They have passed around the word - through _Potterwatch_ , through secret fire-place meetings - to make use of the fake Galleons that they had used in Harry's fifth year for scheduling the D.A. meetings. The move is more in view of the friends who are still in Hogwarts. They had conducted the D.A. meetings under Umbridge and it hadn't been easy. Now, to even communicate anything under the Carrows is a feat, and not to mention, a suicide in its literal sense.

Days pass, with no word from their brother, or Harry, or Hermione. But they all keep faith. It's faith that keeps them going from one day to the next.

Tonks never regains all of her old verve, but she improves by the day. It's hard not to, when she is surrounded by them all – with their mum going out of her way to make her feel at home, with Ginny being a source of friendship.

With Lupin, a changed man, who has forgotten all his fears and worries in the face of a scarier future. It's his wife, carrying his child. The love and the protectiveness that simple truth brings out in him is unmistakable.

 _Because there's only enough time to love_

 _Until it runs out._

 _Which is what makes George hold onto Fred tighter, what makes him forget how he dies a little inside every time Fred touches him in a way he never should have._

 _And what makes Fred close his eyes to how George lies to his face, how his heart breaks every time they make love._

* * *

"You're doing it again." Ginny says.

"What?" Fred says distractedly.

"You're staring at your twin."

Fred laughs. "So what? He's beautiful."

Ginny chokes on her butterbeer. "That's a whole new level of being funny!"

It's a cool night outside, but they're safe and warm for now in their home, bellies full after a lovely dinner that they all had made together.

George is in the living room, sitting on the floor with their mum, dad, and Mrs. Tonks, while a heavily pregnant Tonks and Lupin sit together on their couch. It's a pretty sight, with the fiery yellow light from the fireplace throwing their forms into sharp reliefs. They're chattering calmly; George is right beside Tonks' feet, and they keep passing some note back and forth, with frequent bursts of laughter.

Fred had been sitting with his twin, squished together with him on the floor with their backs against the couch; the physical closeness they share is not given a second glance by anyone.

Then sometime later, George decided to stretch out on the floor and rest his head on Fred's lap. Fred's chest had filled with that same aching weight. He sat with his eyes on him and a hand in his hair for some time, watching the fire's light play on his face, watching his lips form a smile, or a laugh, or words that brought forth laughter from them all...

But then the ache grew into a turbulent love, and he wished if he could lean down and kiss those lips - just a soft, brief one, just so he could ease some of that weight off his chest.

He had to gently push George from his lap and walk out of the room. George had looked at him with a confused, fading smile; Fred had just smiled quietly in return, and his twin understood that he wanted to be left alone.

He had come out to the patio, with a bottle of beer in his hand, when Ginny joined him on the small bench with a bottle of her own.

Fred takes his eyes away from the window and looks at Ginny. She's looking at him with slight concern... a slight, strange confusion..

Fred raises his brows questioningly. "What?"

"You both have been acting funny."

"We always act funny, what's so new about that?"

"You know what I mean." Ginny narrows her eyes.

"No I don't." Fred replies coolly.

Ginny shakes her head, eyes turning softer at him. She sighs, "I don't know, Fred. It's just.."

"It's just what?"

"Just the way you both can't get enough of being with each other."

Maybe the physical closeness they share is not given a second glance by anyone, except Ginny.

"Mhm," Fred narrows his eyes at her.

Ginny looks at him, and grows flustered. "Fuck, Fred, I don't know. Just.. I want you to know that this war is affecting us all equally."

"Right."

"And, mum and dad are busy with Tonks and Lupin so, maybe you feel they're not, giving you enough time or something-"

"We're not two year olds, Ginny." Fred cuts in. "Or... Ron." he adds.

Ginny lets out a small breath of laughter. She looks down at the bottle in her hand, turning it around absently. "Why do you lock your bedroom door?"

Fred's heart flips. He doesn't show a hint of the alarm as he remains composed. "Where the fuck did that come from?"

"Well, it comes from how I came up to call you both for breakfast and I found it locked." she looks up at him, "You never used to lock it. Least of all with a permanent charm."

"We may have our reasons. It isn't necessary we share all details with you."

"You brewed illegal potions in there and you never bothered locking your door."

Fred looks at her for a few beats. She doesn't back off from the eye contact. Eventually Fred looks away, taking a sip of his beer. "I appreciate your concern for us, Ginny, but really, it's nothing to get your wand in a knot."

"Well," Ginny scratches a nail at her bottle's label, carefully peeling it. "You both have never shared a thing with us anyway, so, to think that you would now is stupid."

"Mhm, you're right."

Ginny looks up at him, this time with hurt colouring her eyes.

Fred only sighs and avoids her gaze, staring ahead at their front yard. It's dark; the faint yellow light from their house shades the nearby rosebushes and the ground, and the faint moonlight bathes the rest of the land.

"I remember your sixth year," she says quietly after sometime, "When you were juggling all your...order forms and, joke products and..and that idiot Bagman,"

"Mhm,"

"We used to hound you, wondering what it is you're being so covert about. Ron, mostly. Not me. I never used to bother because, it wasn't like this before, with you two being the only ones around.."

Fred nods, not knowing how else to respond.

"You both always used to be.. _glued_ together, always whispering about god knows what, always worried out of your minds, growing thin and pale and your eyes were...you had dark circles under them, like you never slept,"

"Merlin's pants, what you used to tail us or something? Like that little horror – what's his name? Ah,"

"Colin Creevey," they say together, then share a brief laughter.

"Well, I _am_ your sister aren't I?" she returns, "So, I do notice when you seem off."

"Oh I thank my lucky stars."

"And you used to threaten Ron with this same bullying tone," Ginny continues, " _Fuck off_... _nose out_... _its none of your business._.."

"And I guess I'll have to repeat the same things to you too now."

Ginny looks at Fred, suddenly pissed. "Oh, no need for that. I just was concerned, that's all."

Fred sighs. "Hey,"

Ginny looks down at her lap, a little angry and forlorn.

Fred shifts close to her, and without further words or warning, hugs her close with an arm. He's taken aback when Ginny breaks down suddenly.

"Hey, hey," Fred places the bottle he has in his other hand down on the ground and hugs her properly. She rests her head on his chest, and sobs uncontrollably. Fred tries to calm her with comforting words and a hand rubbing against her back.

"I'm just..scared Fred," she whispers. "I look at you both and you seem _so content_ in your world and, if no one else then you'll always have each other.."

And Fred quickly realizes that this was never about their secret. Ginny has _no idea_ that there could even be such a thing as them being anything more than brothers.

"I'm scared that I'll have no one like that," she moans, "I'm scared..I'm so scared that I'll lose Harry to this _stupid_ war, I'll lose him and I'll have no one.."

"There isn't any guarantee that one of us won't kick the bucket in this war either." Fred says quietly.

"Shut up, Fred!" she sobs harder, clutching tightly at his shoulders. She stays like that for a long time, his words echoing dully in her ears. "Are you stupid? How could you say such things!" she whispers harshly, holding him tightly. Fred is at loss for words as he holds her back awkwardly. This war is bringing out the extreme in everyone; he has never seen Ginny lose her composure like this.

She extricates herself from his arms after sometime. She sniffs, avoiding his gaze. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm stupid, it's stupid,"

"No, no," Fred pats her head gently. He sighs. "I'm sorry. You were just being concerned and I-"

"Was being insensitive again." she laughs thickly.

"I'm sorry,"

"Nah, it's okay.." Ginny smiles at him, wiping at her eyes fiercely.

They sit quietly for some time, both avoiding looking at each other. Fred is a little shaken and feels miserable. He releases a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, and tries not to feel sick of the constant pain that seems to have taken a permanent residence in his heart.

A sudden shriek from inside the house snaps them rudely out of their bubble.

"Oh my god!" Ginny yells.

Everything about their depressing conversation flies out of Fred's head, and he grins widely.

Because Tonks is clutching at her full belly and gasping, grinning and wincing all at once.


	21. Chapter 21

It is all a blur once Harry returns.

They leave the Burrow – fraught urgency fuelling their every move - apparate to the grounds surrounding Hogwarts, sneak into the Hog's Head, take the secret passage from Arianna's portrait that leads straight to the Room of Requirements, now altered beyond recognition from how it was during their DA sessions, or from their own escapades as they sneaked in and read up a ton of charms books together – as much as they hated to read – to figure out things for their joke products, or simply hung out together and shared every thought to each other, unfiltered...

Hours pass in sheer, sick anticipation, Voldemort's icy voice echoing, demanding them to surrender.

None of them does though. None of them has planned on that. For this is the moment when they show that they aren't cowards who had retreated into hideouts, pinning all hopes on a teenager...

This is the moment when they fight their hearts out to win their freedom and their happiness back.

To some, it would return the happiness in its entirety.

To others, it would be returned in painful pieces, broken and damaged by the loss of their loved ones.

To some, though, the happiness wouldn't be returned at all. This war might just be serving to worsen everything rather than making things better. Some may say that it is all for the greater good, that the price they need to pay may be high, but what follows that, would be enduring.

But after the high price that they paid, what follows would be enduring indeed, though in a very twisted sense of the word, as they follow the ones who left them.

For without them, there simply isn't any meaning to the war that has been won, to the freedom that has been restored, to the happiness that has been regained.

Without them, its darkness.

They had been fighting it together, hands held tight, knuckles white, cold sweat dripping, hair sticking to their grimy faces, breaths shallow, hearts hammering...

Wands swiftly cutting through the air as they aimed countercurses at a pace that matched that of light, for what charged at them from a thousand different directions was light indeed – deathly green jets, swift and silent and cold, the wild, vicious shrieks of the ones who cast them strangely muted, as their entire being focused on the absolute imminence..

 _"_ _Freddie. Are you scared?"_

 _"_ _I'll be a fool if I'm not,"_

 _George holds Fred's limp hand, and brings it to his chest. Fred spreads his fingers and feels the steady beat under him._

 _Reassuring._

 _The kiss they share is brief. Chaste. They are high up on the astronomy tower, keeping watch, checking for any inconsistency in the shield charms that has been cast, and watching the vast grounds before them. There's the Forbidden Forest, dark, pitch black in the new moon night. The grounds are silent now. It's the calm before the storm._

Something told them that if they remained together, they would be protected.

They should have been together, fighting together, one hand gripping the wand, the other holding another's hand, anchoring them to safety, to familiarity.. to an inexplicable strength that love alone gave..

 _Intuition. Why are they eerily true?  
The intuition that they have concerning each other...  
It is something that is incomprehensible.  
It comes from within the depths of __**the bond**_ _.  
And if no other intuition, this one, this one is __**always**_ _eerily true._

They had to separate.

Fred gave a cry of alarm, and ran, ripping his hand away from his twin's, for there was their older brother Percy, busy fighting off a Death Eater as another aimed death at him from behind...

And George would've been dead had he taken his eyes off the wand pointed at him.

Seconds and mere metres of separation turned into minutes and an unreachable distance.

George would've lost his life had he lost his focus for even a fraction of a second. And he dared not to lose his life. He dared not to leave Fred behind.

He wouldn't dare, _not until he knew that he wasn't there to be left behind._

 _Not until he knew that he was, in fact, the one left behind_. Not until that.

And now, as he fights off yet another Death Eater, he feels it.

It's so sharp, so agonizing, that he has the wind knocked out of him. He manages to disarm the Death Eater, before he gives in to the pain that has capsized him. He sinks to the ground, tries to breathe...

What makes him scramble up, heart kicking into an overdrive, is a fire that is brought on by a single, searing thought –

Fred.

It's a clang of dissonant drum rolls and a thousand jarring strings and an incomprehensible, static scream in his head as he _runs,_ runs as if his _life depends on it_.

It guides him, that something that ties him to that person, that inexplicable something...

That something that has kept them tied from the moment of their creation.

 ** _That_** **_bond_**.

This pain. He knows what it is. He doesn't realize that he crying as he runs, as he thinks that _he knows what this pain is_...

Terror so pure, so complete, has seized him, and he has no eyes, no mind for the curses that fly at him, miss him by a hair's breadth...

 _"_ _Fred! FRED!"_

He screams murder as he shoves away the shapeless figures that surround the scene. The figures yell something at him, something about keeping calm, something about being sorry, something about there being a war to fight...

He wants to kill them all, but he doesn't even register the sheer anger as he focuses on doing what is far more important than anything.

Hogwarts shields have long been breached. Protected by nothing as it got ravaged mercilessly by the war.

George hugs Fred's limp body to himself, closes his streaming eyes...

And apparates away from the hell.

* * *

 **It has not ended here :) A chp or two to go.**


	22. Chapter 22

_Third year at Hogwarts._

 _They have discovered yet another secret passageway, yet another amazing phenomenon of magic._

 _The Mirror of Erised._

 _"_ _It's actually 'desire' written backwards," says Fred._

 _George only looks uncertain. "I don't see anything particularly 'desirable',"_

 _Unless I consider a normal reflection on a normal mirror desirable._

* * *

His injury is not one caused by magic.

When George found him, he had only seen a pale hand, limp and lifeless, under the crushing weight of the stone wall that had collapsed on him.

As he rushed toward him, the massive chunks of stones were being flung away from the person it was crushing at a pace so ridiculous it seemed as though it had exploded from its centre.

It was wandless magic. And he was unaware of him doing it, as was he unaware of how Ron and Percy and Harry and Hermione were all frantically doing the same at a pace much slower than his, of how they had whirled around and wept wretchedly when they saw him, of how they were not surprised by his blind rage.

And then he had fallen to his knees and gathered him to his chest and disappeared from the place.

When they apparated into a dark little alley, somewhere George knew must be muggle part of London, he saw the blood that kept flowing in rivulets down his pale, still face, realized how warm he still felt..

His hand found its way to his chest, and he spread his fingers, much like how Fred had felt him, the heart beating in him, mere hours ago..

It was feeble. But it was there. And it was not the time to dwell on how he felt nothing, _nothing_ of that inexplicable something that connected them.

 _How_ _ **dead**_ _it felt._

In a frantic whoosh of wind, they were gone from there. When they appeared back, it was before a well known muggle hospital, for St. Mungo's was a battleground.

And now, he waits.

"Mr. Weasley."

He snaps his head up, his eyes wide, his lips parted in a sharp intake of breath. His extremities have gone cold and numb, and his heart beats in one throbbing, slow thud after another.

"Yes," he whispers. The doctor seems grim. They have not yet questioned him on the nature and the cause of the accident. All they have done is focus solely on clutching back Fred's rapidly slipping life.

"We cannot assure you anything as of now. It will be another forty eight hours before we can conclude on anything."

They have all noticed how the person in the Intensive Care Unit, plugged onto life with a myriad tiny tubes and muggle contraptions, is a living copy of him.

That is the reason why, perhaps, they all seem doubly intent, doubly committed, as they try to keep him from slipping away.

That is the reason perhaps why the doctor sits beside him and holds him when he finally lets himself weep, overcome by the sheer ordeal.

* * *

The muggle way sure is slow, but that is the only thing that has been a timely help.

They win the war. George sends a patronus after those forty eight hours, revealing their location. His entire family and friends flocks into the hospital almost the next second, creating a wave of shock and confusion in the hospital that has to be curbed with a few dozen obliviate charms.

And then it is only a matter of time before Madam Pomfrey does her best and heals Fred's injuries completely.

Only thing is, its like mending a broken glass.

* * *

With magic, its pace a thousand times faster than the muggle way, the injuries he sustained to his head, his lungs, and his bones were mended all within two week's time.

And now, as George sits by his bed side, he holds his hand delicately, and watches his face.

He is pale, pale as snow, his red hair clashing violently with his pallor. They're long now, and George hasn't bothered to cut his either.

Because they are supposed to be in sync...

And even if George isn't as pale as him, as gaunt as him, even if he isn't losing his vigour with him – as they are supposed to, as their bond _ensures_ to – he tries, tries hard to be in sync.

He hadn't had the time that day to dwell on how he had felt nothing, _nothing_ of that inexplicable something that connected them.

 _How_ _ **dead**_ _it felt._

And now as he waits, waits day in and day out, waits through sleepless nights for a tiny movement, for a soft sound from those still lips, for a small frown to mar that serene face, time is all he has - endless, silent stretches of time.

His family speaks only softly with him, touches him gently – gentle nudges to bring him out of his self-imposed restrain, out of the wall he has been building around himself, isolating himself with him. Him, his other half, his only reason for living, who has become tantamount to silence, to bleakness - things completely opposite to what he used to be.

And even if it seems like forcing _the bond_ to revive, like prodding something lifeless and hoping for it to stir, he would never stop this forcing, not even if it meant he would be sitting here, holding his hand delicately, sliding his fingers softly through his hair, watching his face – until death parts them, this time for real, _unfalteringly_ , rather than poorly hacking at one of their necks and then leaving the both of them bleeding, leaving behind a _dead bond_...

Dare he call it that? A dead bond?

He cannot say that he doesn't care about that. For he does care, he is dying piece by piece as he grieves, as their past throbs like a fresh wound in him.

He is still beautiful, heartwrenchingly so, like a sculpture chiselled to perfection. George stares at him every hour of every day, and he could keep doing it forever.

He is taken back to the intense memories that he stir.

His twin. His lover.

Dominant. Brusque. Unpredictable. Hot headed.

Cold. Aloof. Fiery. Passionate. Witty and humorous and dark and morbid.

George could pull his sheets up all he want in the nights when they'd lain together on the bed, drown in shame; or was it shame? As he stares at him, he is convinced now that it wasn't shame. It was the heat, the sheer nerves that Fred brought forth by the simplest of touches, the shortest utterances. He could drown in the heat all he want, and Fred would just...take him. No consent asked, not after the once asked for the first time on their first night.

No permissions, no prelude.

Against the wall, held unrelentingly by the wrists, crowded in quickly, kisses pressed to his neck, filth whispered into his ear; taken, over and over, until he forgot all the right and wrong. On the table, dropping whatever they held in their hands as madness overtook them, kissing heatedly, angrily, and Fred would ask him if he were ashamed, like he ought to be, or if he were sick like Fred, in love with his brother.

And when he would be mellow, when he would be overcome with love, he would keep him awake until the dawn as he kept at it slowly, endlessly; a fire that burned long.

That's when he would ask him if he loved him, not angrily. That's when he would cry softly, kiss him softly.

George traces gentle fingers down the side of his inexpressive face.

And sheds silent tears yet again.

* * *

 **One more chp to go.**


	23. Chapter 23

_Wake up,  
Look me in the eyes again;  
I need to feel your hand  
Upon my face._

 _-Bloodstream (Stateless)_

* * *

 _Changes._

 _Its course had been subtle.  
Dramatic._

 _They really are a classic case of contradiction, aren't they?  
Of antithesis. Paradox. Oxymoron. The figures of speech befitting to a truth_

 _That is:_

 _For someone as gentle, as accepting, as loving as George  
It took Fred to reach the brink of death for him to finally acknowledge the changes._

 _And it is a paradox within a paradox  
That a paradox has to exist in the first place between two identical souls._

 _Perhaps that is what had made their relationship culminate into what it had been:_

 _Platonic.  
And sexual._

* * *

It takes the combined, persistent efforts of their mum, their dad, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Ron, Ginny, Hermione and Harry to get him out of the bedroom he has locked himself in with Fred.

Their parent's contribution has been loving words and endless encouragement.

Their siblings' is a reminder of the person he used to be, a reminder of the true nature of his and Fred's souls: Fred would have been strongly disapproving of him closing off to the world like this, of him turning into a masochist and inflicting pain on himself like this.

Hermione's contribution has been: inviting herself to their room, trying to engage him in stimulating conversations, armed with a newspaper, or a new book she found.

Harry's has been being a calming presence, filling him in on the post-war developments, gently, and always, inviting him out so he could be a part of the on-going changes himself. So he could be a part of them all, not just Fred's.

Now that is a difficult idea to absorb. Being a part of the world outside, without Fred by his side. He shouldn't leave him for even a second, isn't that the way it is supposed to be?

But after six months of being a constant presence by his side, watching that face, talking to him about their past in the nights, hearing back silence until it echoed in his head...

 _And finally getting discovered of taking sleeping potions.  
Yet another classic case, this time of role-reversal, as he harks back to the memory of discovering them in Fred's nightstand._

Though Fred isn't the one there to catch him at it, as he had Fred. It is their mum instead.

"Six months is a long time, George," Ron says. He is sitting beside him on another chair, watching Fred silently. He turns to him. "Have you taken a look at your face?" he asks suddenly. "You've got dark circles the size of Africa under your eyes."

George says nothing.

Ron exhales noisily, as though exasperated. "George."

George looks up, and meets his eyes. "What?"

Ron, their little brother who has been the butt of their countless jokes, who has always had a nervous approach to them lest he be butchered by their sharp tongues and their sharp wits, is the one who gets up with a decisive air, takes hold of his arm firmly, and tugs him up.

"Get ready. We're going out."

George averts his eyes unresponsively.

"Stop being a git, George. Honest to god I'll stun you and levitate you out of here if that's what it takes."

* * *

They visit Hogwarts.

The crumbled walls have been rebuilt, the broken, splintered trees resurrected, the grounds cleared of all the debris, of all the blood and grime that the war had left.

The towers have been buttressed with pillars of strengths that could easily withstand nine richter scale earthquakes, the portraits have been repaired and mounted to their usual places.

As they walk along the rather deserted corridors, Peeves the Poltergeist swoops down and takes his hat off in a gesture of respect at them.

"Weasleys, revered and loved among us magical community, yes you are. William Arthur Weasley, Charles Septimus Weasley, Perseus Ignatius Weasley, George Fabian Weasley, Fredrick Gideon Weasley, and their younger brothers Ronald Billius Weasley, Ginevra Molly-

George tunes him out by then.

"Bloody hell." Ron mutters as they escape him. "You'd think the war might've changed him but no, loony as ever."

The reason why Ron has brought him here appears before them as they exit another corridor, walk up to a door and knock on it.

Their old charms teacher, Professor Flitwick, opens the door, and beams widely at them. He seems especially overjoyed to see George, one of his brightest, most favourite of students.

They chat over tea and biscuits, Flitwick, despite being a half goblin, one of the most kind, sensitive individual he has spoken to outside of his family after the war shattered his world.

They speak of the new ministry, how it needs bright, young people more than ever now, how new changes are being brought about, new laws made as archaic, irrelevant ones weeded out swiftly by one of the most capable ministers they've ever had – Kingsley, and how he thinks that though they have suffered unbearable losses, the courage in them to move forward is the only thing that would make the hard-earned victory meaningful. Otherwise they might as well have been defeated. What is the use of suffering great loses, enduring sacrifices, only to descend into despair. If so, the sacrifices made were pointless, the suffering for naught.

He asks George if he really wants to help him in re-writing the many student records that were lost during the war, considerate of his emotional state. When George nods in affirmative, Flitwick assigns him and Ron the work.

Since that day forth, he and Ron would often visit Hogwarts and assist them in the works.

Come night, and he would lie down next to Fred, talk about his day, wait for sleep to claim him, and when it doesn't, take the potion that he manages to keep hidden away from his unsuspecting family.

Because they think that he is improving, and he wants to keep it that way; despite the fact that he doesn't talk like he used to, that he doesn't smile like he used to, that whenever he does, it never reaches his eyes.

They think perhaps it would never return, not unless Fred wakes up. At least he isn't confining himself to his and Fred's room.

Six months turn seven, seven turns eighth.

Life went on around Fred.

* * *

It's the silence of the night.

George lies beside Fred, staring at the ceiling. His eyes are heavy, and a slight headache makes them feel stressed.

"Met Oliver today," he says quietly. "He asked if I ever plan on opening our shop again,"

The same grief that he feels every day, every minute, rests heavily on his chest, roils around nauseatingly in his stomach.

"Notice how it has changed from 'we' to 'I', Fred? People don't mention us as us anymore. When they talk to me-" George breathes heavily, struggling to speak through the weight that rests on his chest, that _heavy, nauseating pain. "_ When they talk to me it's just addressed to me. Not to the both of us."

Silence. Silence is his reply. That chronic silence.

George turns and looks at him.

There he lies, his eyes closed, in a peaceful slumber.

Pale, slender. Red hair long as ever, skin smooth as ever.

Beautiful. Frozen in time.

"Are you even alive?" George asks, and suddenly, he is afraid of Fred. Unreasonably, irrationally.

He scrambles up, breathing heavily, heart kicking up into a violent rhythm.

The more he stares at him, the more terrified he gets.

"Fuck," he closes his eyes, tears springing to them yet again.

This isn't the first time that something like this has happened.

He is petrified of a thought that keeps jumping to his head-

 _Of turning to find Fred perhaps in a rotten state beside him, or perhaps grinning at him._

He is slowly losing his mind.

George wills his heart to slow down, his breathing to even out. He takes deep, long breaths, until that sudden surge of panic dies down.

He opens his eyes, and looks at him, to find that he is sleeping, as always. Unresponsive. Comatose.

Suddenly, George cries hard.

"Freddie," he whimpers brokenly, lying back down close to him, drawing his limp body to himself, hugging him.

He smells of the sweet scented soap that George uses to bathe him, his hair silken and fresh as he weaves his fingers through them.

"Wake up, please, wake up, love. I love you, I love you," George sobs into his hair, kissing softly, letting his tears soak them.

"I'm sorry, Freddie, love. I'm sorry to think such terrible thoughts. I'm sorry that I lose my mind sometimes. Don't let me lose my mind, Fred. Don't you love me? Don't you wanna come back to me, and kiss me, make love to me? I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. I'm in love with you. Now stop torturing me for not seeing it sooner. Stop it, love.."

 _Silence._

* * *

He happens to walk into an empty chamber the next day in Hogwarts.

And finds himself face to face with something that he and his twin had discovered for the first time in their third year-

The Mirror of Erised.

This time, when he looks at it, what he sees isn't a normal reflection, like he had years ago with Fred.

This time, he sees himself, healthy, smiling contently, cheeks tinted a pretty shade of rose, held closely by his twin who is stood behind him, as healthy as himself, a small smile on his lips, pressing little kisses to the shell of his one ear, catching his eyes in the mirror every so often with that mix of playfulness and sin in them.

George spends four straight hours staring at it.

* * *

Days pass.

Thoughts of euthanasia come up in the minds of a few like Pansy Parkinson, and Ernie MacMillan. He hexed them both in a rage so blind, so absolute, that were it not for Flitwick's timely intervention, they would have actually been dead.

That evening, when he gets home from Hogwarts after receiving an urgent patronus from Harry, he is greeted by an odd sight.

People. A small crowd of people – their relatives, their close friends: Harry, Hermione, Lee, Angelina, Katie, Alicia and many other Gryffindors, their teachers, Kingsley and many friends from the Ministry – at their front yard, and their living room.

And then, it hits him hard.

A swift, sudden rush.

A shrill, frenzied surge of violins and cellos.

 _Their bond. Opened, rushing to him, flooding his dead, numb being._

George's head reels, his world spins...

His body trembles, his knees buckle...

"George!" that's Ginny, having caught sight of him from where she emerged out of the front door, "Oh my god, George! Fred! He's back he's back he's woken up-"

And there he is at their front steps, pale, gaunt, heartwrenchingly beautiful, silken red hair whipping in the raw evening wind.

"Fred?" he rasps, tears streaming, blurring his vision. He blinks them away hard, for he doesn't want to miss a second of this moment.

Fred is bounding toward him, as he does to him. They collide in the middle of their front yard, gathering each other into their arms, breathing in and out desperately, sobbing, laughing.

They vaguely hear everyone cheering, laughing, crying around them.

George is thrumming with wild love, with frenzied joy, when he frantically cups his face with both hands and kisses him all over his face.

Fred gasps a little, but is still grinning, as he accepts them all.

George is so far gone, he doesn't care, doesn't acknowledge the presence of people around them.

"I love you, Fred. I missed you so much, I love you. Don't ever do this to me. Don't ever leave me like this," George sobs, speaking tenderly, close against his lips. "I'm in love with you. I love you, in every sense of the word,"

And George stops when he senses the discordance in their bond.

He draws back..

To find that Fred is looking at him with a thoroughly perplexed smile on his flushed face.

"Uh, George, I love you and all too. Merlin, it was your irritating voice that I kept hearing even when I was comatose! But don't you think you're taking it too far this way?" Fred laughs in amusement, staring at him in absolute mirth. "And here I was thinking that I might be the one suffering extensive brain damage!" he laughs.

 _"_ _What's wrong with you, Georgie?" he laughs, and laughs again._

 _Each laugh a stab of knife to his chest._

 _They soon get jostled by their family and friends after they deem they have been given enough time to bond and let the news sink in._

* * *

 _They really are a classic case of contradiction, aren't they?  
Of role-reversal._

 _George isn't sure if this has been the effect of the potion he had been taking._

 _If his entire memory with Fred has been altered by it.  
If what he thinks he knows is true is all nothing but a dream._

 _Or if is Fred's, not his memory, that has been altered._

 _There's no one to seek as witness after all, no one to look up to as judge._

 _For it is a secret, be it one that had transpired in reality or in a dream._

 _It is their secret.  
Their beautiful, sick secret._

* * *

 _Epilogue_

George shares the bed with him in the silence of the nights.

When he hugs him, Fred never objects. When he trails gentle fingers through his hair, down his back, revelling in his warmth, Fred lets him, always.

And now, when he looks into his eyes and cries, Fred dashes the tears away with his fingertips.

"Why did you say that..that you're in love with me, George? That day?" he asks, a pensive expression on his face.

George smiles through his tears and kisses his cheek. "It's 'cause I really love you, you silly."

"You've become a pansy, d'you know that, Georgie?"

"I know," George laughs, averting his brimming eyes from his beautiful face.

"Oh George," Fred sighs, "I'm here now, aren't I? I'm here with you. I won't leave you again, I promise," he kisses his forehead gently.

George breathes in, his heart aching sweetly. "And that's all I need.. that's all I need.." he buries a hand into his hair, drawing him in close, resting his face against the crook of his neck.

Their souls, they are almost as merged now as they had been in George's memories, when they would be making love.

"So, back again to business tomorrow, aren't we, Georgie?" Fred asks a little sleepily. Contently.

"Yeah." George replies.

Content in his arms.

* * *

 **Lots of love from the bottom of my little heart to the songs that had been the inspiration for this fic:**

 ** _All is Violent, All is Bright_** **by** ** _God is an Astronaut._**

 ** _Bloodstream_** **by** ** _Stateless_** **.**

 **Thank you everyone who reviewed.**

* * *

 **Edit:**

 **So just thought I should put this up here because I get a feeling that I'm gonna get a few objection with the kinda-ambiguous, kinda-anti-climactic ending.**

 **AmyTheAuthor: Really hope that you don't mind me putting up my response to your review here. Just doing it cuz it would serve the purpose of answering your review as well as clarifying my thoughts to others as well. :)**

 **So, I had this ending in mind right when I started off with this story, so I really wanted it to end this way, never mind it was an ambiguous, anti-climactic one. It is infuriating, I know, but I've always thought that there was this feeling of negativity that stubbornly clung to this fic. Besides I had this idea in my mind since a long time where I wanted to show how everything is kind of a reversal of the previous events, and how it is like a tragic emphasis on this...idk.. yin-yang nature that I'd built for them. :)**


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